L I B R.  A R.  Y 
OF  THE 

U N I VERS  ITY 
Of  ILLINOIS 

B882\, 


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wm- 

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J. 

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P.ead  this,  dear  Captain.”  Page  21. 


A VISIT 


t 


TO 


my  BIRTH-PLACE 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

The  PASTOR’S  TAKES,  &c. 

— o{o  — 


“Sweet  scenes  of  youth  ! to  faithful  memory  dear, 
Stiii  fondly  cherish’d  wit!?  the  sacred  tear, 

When,  in  the  soft^’d  Iigh't  of  summer  skies. 

Full  on  my  soul  life’s  fim  illusions  rise ! 

Sweet  scenes  of  youthful  bliss,  unknown  to  pain  ! 

I come,  to  trace  your  soothing-  haunts  again,— 

To  mark  each  grace  that  pleas’d  my  stripling  prime, 
By  absence  hallow’d,  and  endeared  by  time,- 
To  lose  amid  your  winding  dells  the  past 


AMERICAN  EDITION,  REVISED  AND  IMPROVED. 


BOSTON : 

PUBLISHED  AT  JAMES  LORING^S 

SABBATH  SCHOOL  BOOK-STORE, 

132  WASHINGTON  STREET. 


DISTRICT  OE  MASSACHUSETTS,  to  wit: 

District  Clerk's  Office . 

Bb  it  remembered,  That  on  the  seventh  day  of  October, 
A.  D.  1828,  in  the  fifty-third  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United 
States  of  America,  James  Loring , of  the  said  District,  has  deposited 
in  this  Office  the  title  of  a Book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as  Pro- 
prietor, in  the  words  following,  to  wit : 

“A  Visit  to  My  Birth-Place.  By  the  Author  of  the  Pastor’s  Tales 
&c.  American  Edition,  Revised  and  Improved. 

Sweet  scenes  of  youth  ! tq  faithful  memory  dear. 

Still  fondly  cherish’d  with  the  sacred  tear, 

When,  in  the  soften’d  light  of  summer  skies, 

Full  on  my  soul  life’s  first  illusions  rise  ! 

Sweet  scenes  of  youthful  bliss,  unknown  to  pain ! 

I come,  to  trace  your  soothing  haunts  again, — 

To  mark  each  grace  that  pleas’d  my  stripling  prime, 

By  absence  hallow’d,  and  endeared  by  time, — 

To  lose  amid  your  winding  dells  the  past- ” 

In  conformity  to  the  Act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States,  entitled 
tS  An  Act  for  the  Encouragement  of  Learning,  by  securing  the  Copies 
of  Maps,  Charts  and  Books,  to  the  Authors  and  Proprietors  of  such  Cop- 
ies, during  the  times  therein  mentioned:”  and  also  to  an  Act,  Entitled,  “An 
Act  supplementary  to  an  Act,  entitled.  An  Act  for  the  Encouragement 
of  Learning,  by  securing  the  Copies  of  Maps,  Charts  and  Books,  to  the 
Authors  and  Proprietors  of  such  Copies,  during  the  times  therein  men* 
tioned  ; and  extending  the  Benefits  thereof  to  the  Arts  of  Designing, 
Engraving  and  Etching  Historical,  and  other  Prints.” 

tvo  w n avis  5 Clerk  of  the  District 
JNO.  W.  DAVIS, | of  Massachusetts. 


PREFACE 


TO  THE  BOSTON  EDITION. 


There  is  a purity  in  the  virtuous  nat- 
• ural  affection  of  relatives,  a chastity  of 
attachment,  which  is  honourable  to  hu- 
man nature.  Amidst  the  ruins  of  the 
apostacy,  this  remains,  a monument  of 
the  native  dignity  of  man.  The  love 
2 of  a mother  to  her  children,  that  of  a 
brother  to  his  sister,  and  of  a sister  to 
‘<r  her  brother,  is  not  surpassed  by  any 
other  social  bond  that  is  common  to  our 
race.  When  this  affection  is  sanctified 
by  the  renovating  power  of  the  grace  of 
God,  a union  is  consummated  in  the 


VI 


PREFACE. 


^aPPJ  members  of  the  same  family,  which 
the  wasteless  ages  of  eternity  will  but 
increase.  When  a little  circle  of  rela- 
tives of  this  character  are  called  to  en- 
dure together  the  privations  and  the 
sufferings  to  which  all  are  alike  subject, 
they  more  firmly  grasp  those  principles 
of  Christianity,  which  the  gospel  reveals, 
and  more  cordially  sustain  each  other 
under  the  sharpest  trials,  than  when  the 
clear  sun  of  prosperity  illumines  all  their 
path.  Does  a dark  cloud  of  obscure 
providences  hide  from  their  hope  almost 
every  prospect  of  sublunary  bliss  ?— the 
cheering  light  of  faith  in  an  atoning  Re- 
deemer, the  well-grounded  hope  of  glory 
to  be  revealed  at  death,  supports,  and 
more  than  comforts,  yea  enables  them 
to  triumph  in  Christ.  It  is  to  exhibit 
such  scenes  as  those  to  which,  we  refer, 
it  is  to  illustrate  such  an  attachment 
as  that  of  which  we  speak,— that  this 
charming  little  volume  seems  to  have 


PREFACE. 


VI  i 


been  written.  That  all  its  narrations 
are  literally  as  stated,  is  not  affirmed  ; 
but  of  this  we  feel  confident,  that  who- 
ever reads  the  book  with  a careful  at- 
tention, will  find  such  affections  excit- 
ed, and  discover  such  alleviations  from, 
sorrow,  in  its  religious  considerations,  as 
must  lead  them  to  the  conviction,  that 
these  supports  are  more  to  be  coveted 
than  all  the  wealth  which  might  be 
gathered  from  the  possessions  of  this 
wide  universe. 


y 


A * 


A VISIT  TO  MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


Pictured  in  memory’s  mellowing  glass,  how  swetft 
Our  youthful  days,  our  youthful  joys  to  greet ; 

How  sweet,  when  all  the  evil  shuns  the  gaze, 

To  view  the  unclouded  skies  of  other  days. 

These  long  lost  scenes,  to  me,  the  past  restore, 

Each  besom  friend,  each  pleasure,  now  no  more, 

And  every  tree,  familiar  to  my  sight, 

Recalls  tome  fond  idea  of  delight. 

H.  J t.  IVhitc. 

To  have  left  our  native  place  in  youth,  when 
&11  was  fair,  bright,  and  promising  ; when  Hope 
was  our  guiding  star,  and  Inexperience,  her  assid- 
uous handmaid,  dressed  every  thing  in  her  bright, 
livery  ; to  return  to  it  in  maturer  years  ; to  have 
felt  the  changes,  the  storms,  the  struggles,  the  sad 
realities  of  life  ; to  review,  with  altered  feelings, 
scenes  remembered  and  dear ; to  repeat  names 
familiar  and  beloved,  but  long  unheard  ; to  revisit, 
in  short,  our  birth-place,  and  not  feel  the  strong* 
tide  of  early  recollections  flow  back  with  interest 
sufficient  to  oppress  the  bosom  with  the  sensations 
they  awake,  seems  to  me  impossible. 

There  are  few  persons  so  severed  from  the  ties 
and  affections  of  nature,  as  to  be  incapable  of 

B 


6 A VISIT  TO 

singling  out  one  spot  on  this  earth’s  extension,  to 
which  the  heart  can  turn  with  fondness,  or  their 
affections  cling  with  ardour.  Some  declining  vil- 
lage, some  ruined  mansion,  some  rural  vale,  or 
sea-beaten  shore,  may  be  the  object  of  deep  indi- 
vidual interest,  when  the  heart,  musing  on  the 
years  that  are  gone,  can  say, 

66  This  is  my  own,  my  native  place.” 

He  must,  indeed,  possess  but  a scanty  portion 
of  the  finer  feelings  of  humanity,  who,  after  passing 
through  the  various  scenes,  the,  chances  and 
changes,  into  which  life’s  vicissitudes  may  draw 
him ; or  it  may  be,  after  long  years  of  absence 
from  his  country,  his  friends,  and  if  he  yet  has  one, 
from  his  home,  can  revisit  his  native  place,  trace 
again  the  paths  he  trode  in  laughing  childhood,  or 
in  careless  youth,  and  not  think  over  the  past,  nor 
feel  the  present  with  sensations  of  powerful  and 
affecting  interest. 

Such,  at  least,  were  the  feelings  with  which  I 
beheld  mine,  when,  after  along  estrangement  from 
the  scenes  and  the  friends  of  my  youthful  days,  I 
went,  on  my  return  to.  my  country,  at  the  request 
©f  a friend,  who  then  resided  in  the  mansion  of  my 
ancestors,  to  visit  my  birth-place  ; where  many  a 
happy  hour  of  thoughtless  youth  had  been  spent ; 
when  the  light  winged  moments  fled  swiftly— ah  ! 
how  often  have  I since  thought,  too  swiftly  away, 
and  each  succeeding  day  awoke  new  hopes,  open- 
ed new  prospects,  offered  new  pursuits.  How  oft- 
en since,  reviewing  as  the  vision  of  a dream,  the 
days  that  were  gone,  have  I given  the  sigh  of  min- 
gled pity  and  regret,  to  the  shipwrecked  expecta- 
tions of  myself  and  my  young  companions,  while 
experience  made  me  say. 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


7 


“Poor  simple  wights,  ah  1 little  did  we  ween 
The  ills  that  wait  on  man  in  life's  sad  scene  ; 

Ah,  little  thought  that  we  ourselves  should  know, 

This  world's  a w orld  of  weeping  and  of  wo.” 

To  those  who  have  shared  my  feelings,  I need 
not  attempt  to  describe  the  varied  emotions  that 
passed  in  my  mind  on  approaching,  after  such  an 
absence  and  such  changes,  the  place  where  I first 
drew  breath  ; and  beholding  again  scenes  I had 
cherished  in  my  fondest  recollection.  My  native 
vale  once  more  extended  before  me  ; fair,  peaceful, 
unaltered,  as  if  but  a day  had  passed,  since 
within  the  hills  which  encircled  it,  were  comprised 
all  that  I loved  on  earth.  I had  quitted  them  ar- 
dent and  sanguine,  my  mind  glowing  with  hope, 
and  my  imagination  looking  forward  to  the  world 
on  which  I was  about  to  enter.  If  some  few  nat- 
ural regrets,  some  long-lingering  looks  were  cast 
behind,  the  brilliant  prospects  opening  to  my  view 
— the  friends,  the  joys  that  awaited  me  on  my  re- 
turn in  honour  and  happiness, — these  thoughts 
cleared  the  passing  cloud,  and  Hope,  smiling  on 
her  votary,  pointed  through  the  vista,  to  a fair,  a 
brilliant  future. 

With  expectations  unrealized — Hope's  gay  vis- 
ions faded — early  prospects  blighted — experi- 
ence supplying  the  place  of  youthful  ardor,  and 
sadly  telling  me  the  world,  which  had  seemed  so 
fair,  was  one  of  sin  and  sorrow,  I returned  to  the 
place  which  was  once  my  home.  As  the  golden 
rays  of  a setting  sun,  tinging  the  tops  of  the  lofty 
head-lands,  gave  a deeper  blue  to  the  ocean  wave 
that  flowed  at  their  foot,  and  flung  a softening  ra- 
diance over  the  fair  landscape,  I once  more  looked 
on  a spot  dear  to  my  heart. 

Every  thing  around  me  seemed  so  unchanged 
that  the  events  of  the  years  that  had  passed,  ap, 


8 


A VISIT  Tw 


pcared  like  a dream.  But  oh  ! it  was  like  a fair 
image  of  the  friend  we  have  loved,  exquisitely 
moulded  in  wax ; the  features  are  the  same,  but 
the  spirit  which  animated  them  is  wanting — the 
scenes  were  the  same,  but  they  who  gave  a life,  a 
coloring  to  those  scenes,  were  absent : the  friends 
whose  hand,  whose  smile  in  other  days  awaited 
me,  no  longer  hailed  my  return  ; and  as  I passed 
each  well-remembered  haunt  of  early  happiness, 
my  heart,  in  the  poet's  words,  demanded,  “ the 
friends  of  my  youth,  where  are  they  V 1 — Gone  ! 
seemed  the  very  silence  to  answer  : — Time  has 
flown  on,  and  they  are  gone.  Yet  they  had  not  all 
bent  to  time  ; with  some  of  them,  at  least,  his 
course  was  not  half  spent : — -but  they  were  gone, 
some  to  the  grave,  others  to  distant  climes. 

On  the  evening  after  my  arrival  at  the  place  that 
was  once  my  home,  I was  sitting  in  the  window  of 
my  own  room,  again  regarding  from  it  objects  re- 
membered and  dear,  when  young  C — , my  friend’s 
eldest  son,  tapped  at  the  door,  to  invite  me  to  walk 
with  him.  Seeing  the  gay  party  that  had  assem- 
bled on  the  lawn,  I told  him  I thought  he  had 
better  excuse  me,  as  I felt  in  rcfther  too  pensive  a 
mood  for  such  lively  companions  “ O,  no,  no  !” 
he  cried,  “ we  will  drive  pensiveness  away  ; and 
if  not,  you  shall  not  spoil  our  mirth,  for  1 know  a 
famous  place  for  meditation,  and  I promise  to 
leave  you  there  in  undisturbed  solitude,  if  I find 
you  proof  to  all  our  gaiety.” 

“ Very  well  : on  these  conditions  I will  go  with 
you.”  “ But  stop,”  he  exclaimed,  as  I was  taking 
my  hat,  “ a proviso — if  I part  with  your  company, 
you  must  promise,  on  your  part,  to  tell  me  the  re- 
sult of  your  meditations  in  the  place  I leave  you.” 

“ Granted,  my  dear  C.” 

“ By  the  bye,  I fear  I have  drawn  a sermon  on 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


9 

myself — n1 imported  So  saying,  he  ran  down 

stairs,  and  joining  a group  as  gay  and  thoughtless 
as  himself,  we  set  off  on  our  walk.” 

I soon  found  the  frame  in  which  I set  out 
would  not  be  altered  by  my  walk.  Each  spot  that 
I passed,  recalled  the  memory  of  days  that  were 
gone;  on  every  height/ or  through  each  embow- 
ering shade,  forms  seemed  to  stray,  and  words,  and 
looks,  and  tones,  such  as  I shall  not  meet  on  earth 
again,  seemed  to  break  on  my  ear,  or  present 
themselves  to  my  eye.  I became  silent  and  ab- 
stracted ; and  except  attracting  the  occasional 
glance  or  smile  of  young  C , my  unsocial  hu- 

mour rendered  my  presence  almost  unheeded  by 
my  companions.  • 

At  length  a turn  in  the  glen  through  which  we 
walked,  presented  another  of  those  spots  which 
memory  had  hallowed  : it  was  the  time-worn  walls 
of  what  had  been  a church,  still  standing,  ivy-cov- 
ered, within  the  ancient  burying-ground  on  the 
eminence,  whose  boundary  of  now  loose  stones 
seemed  gradually  to  be  leaving  it  to  the  long 
branches  that  hung  over  them  to  form  an  enclo- 
sure ; many  a.  time  I had  sat  under  their  shade 
with  those  I ne^r  must  here  see  again ; many  a 
time,  a tide  of  recollections  connected  with  this 

ruined  spot  rushed  back  on  me  ; young  C saw 

the  expression  that  had  gathered  on  my  counte- 
nance, and,  seizing  my  arm,  he  drew  me  up  the 
broken  steps,  and  laughingly  saying,  “ Thus  I fulfil 
my  promise,  now,  remember  yours he  seated 
me  on  a grave-stone,  partly  overshadowed  by  the 
spreading  tr£e  that  grew  by  the  old  wall.  I had 
no  inclination  to  leave  the  place,  and  was  glad  to 
find,  as  the  gay  voices  of  those  I had  separated 
from  died  away  in  the  distance,  that  they  were 
leaving  me  to  myself.  Truly,  C ■—  had  well'se* 


to 


a Visit  to 


lected  a meditating  place.  Here  all  was  still,  all 
was  silent ; within  the  untrodden  precincts  of  the 
old  church,  the  grass  grew  higher  and  greener  than 
without.  The  day  had  been  sultry,  and  nature 
appeared  to  be  almost  oppressed.  The  luxuriance 
of  vegetation,  the  deep  shade  of  the  trees,  increased 
the  feeling  of  silence  and  solitude.  Around  lay 
the  tombs  of  the  dead  ! Busy,  active,  thinking  man, 
how  small  a spot  of  earth  contains  you ! My 
thoughts  wandered  with  my  eyes,  as  I turned  from 
the  green  hillock  to  the  venerable  tomb-stone,  and 
imagined  to  myself  the  various  situations,  fortunes, 
and  pursuits  of  those  who  slept  undistinguished 
beneath  their  covering ; but  calling  them  back  to 
that  whereon  I sat,  every  feeling  became  absorbed  r 
it  was  a grey,  newer-Iooking  stone,  close  to  the 
wall,  and,  as  I before  said,  under  the  shade  of 
some  of  the  long  branches  of  the  trees  that  grew 
by  it,  my  eye  fell  on  words,  “ Allan  Ruthven, 
aged  23  other  names  were  there,  but  on  these 
only  my  eyes  were  fastened. — “ And  so  I have  sat 
unconsciously  on  your  grave,  Allan,  my  friend, 
my  brother !” 

My  heart  was  full : I leaned  my  face  on  my 
hand  : in  the  train  of  recollections  that  returned, 
the  forms  now  laid  in  dust  seemed  again  to  stand 
before  me ; I heard  their  voices,  I saw  their 
smiles  ; but  I looked  on  the  narrow  dwelling,  and 
the  vision  fled.  Then  were  my  eyes  turned  unto 
heaven,  whither  they  were  gone,  and  my  prayer 
breathed  to  the  God  of  my  life  whom  they  endless- 
ly worshipped,  that  so  I might  tread  on  this  earth 
in  the  steps  they  trod,  that,  at  the  last,  the  one 
abode  might  rjeceive  us.  I then  rose,  and  not 
trusting  myself  with  another  glance  on  the  tomb, 
took  my  homeward  way,  through  meadows,  where, 
in  other  days,  I had  with  Allan, 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


11 


“ Brushed  with  hasty  steps  the  early  dew.” 

On  my  return  I was  reminded  of  my  promise  ; 
thus,  C , I fulfil  it.  Perhaps  you  will  be  sur- 

prised at  the  mode  I have  adopted ; but  if  from 
the  short  history vO^Allan  and  his  parents,  you  or 
your  young  comaj^fth^shall  gain  a useful  lesson, 
you  will  allow  thaPttie  time  spent  at  his  grave  was 
not  thrown  away. 


u And  the  life  which  I now  live,  I live  by  faith  in  the 
“ Son  of  God.”  Gal.  ii.  20. 

I need  not  describe  to  you  the  lodge  at  the  west 
side  of  the  glen,  where  your  father  now  lives  ; 
you  daily  see  it  from  your  window,  peeping  out 
from  its  enclosure  of  thick  plantations,  where  the 
dark  pine  mingles  with  the  light  larch  and  beech, 
and  the  stately  fir  is  contrasted  with  the  white 
stems  of  ash.  and  silvery  birch. 

In  former  times  that  house  was  the  abode  of 
Ellen  Falconer:  there  she  lived  in  seclusion  and 
happiness ; her  mother  had  died  when  she  was  too 
young  to  lament  her  loss,  and  until  she  parted  with 
her  father  on  her  marriage  with  Mr.  Ruthven, 
Ellen  had  hardly  known  what  sorrow  meant.  She 
was  then  introduced  to  a world  that  was  new  to 
her  : soon,  shocked  by  its  vices,  or  disquieted  with 
its  manners,  she  would  willingly  have  shrunk  back 
to  her  retirement ; but  this  could  not  be ; her 
husband  was  in  the  army,  and  thus  introduced  at 
once  into  society  the  least  calculated  to  please  a 
person  of  her  disposition,  she  was  also  unable  to 
withdraw  from  it ; yet,  while  he  formed  a part  of 
it,  every  society  had  a charm  for  her — with  her 


12 


A VISIT  TO 


husband,  Ellen  thought  she  could  be  happy  any 
where. 

She  was  soon  put  to  the  proof ; for  no  very 
great  length  of  time  had  elapsed  after  his  marriage, 
when  Ruthven’s  regiment  was  ordered  abroad — 
and  she  stood  that  proof : for  his  sake  she  bade  her 
native  land  farewell,  and  undertook  to  share  the 
difficulties  and  hardships  of  a military  life,  in  a 
land  not  only  foreign,  but  at  that  time  the  seat  of 
war.  The  thought  that  she  should  brave  hardships, 
dangers,  sufferings,  was  sweet,  when  compared 
with  the  idea  of  his  meeting  them  alone. 

Poor  Ellen  was  now  called  to  experience  things 
that  would  have  shocked  her  in  description  : timid 
and  gentle  hersplf,  she  was  daily  forced  to  witness 
the  horrors  of  war,  continually  to  tremble  for  a life 
far  dearer  than  her  own,  and  have  her  heart  tom 
by  seeing  the  miseries  of  her  fellow-creatures. 
She  had  but  one  support,  one  stay— while  her  hus- 
band was  with  her,  all  seemed  bright ; while  she 
could  see  him,  hear  him,  know  he  was  safe,  she 
was  content  and  happy ; but  when  left  alone,  then 
she  would  feel  hfr  situation,  then-  would  she  find 
there  was  none  to  colhfort. 

Often  when  she  has  seen  this  beloved  husband 
march  out  at  the  head  of  a detachment,  none  of 
whom  might  return  to  tell  the  fate  of  their  com- 
rades, she  would  throw  herself  on  her  knees  to  ask 
an  Almighty  Guardian  to  protect  him ; she  would 
raise  an  imploring  look  that  his  head  might  be 
covered  in  the  day  of  battle ; but  she  could  not 
leave  him  as  in  the  hands  of  a gracious  F ather ; 
she  could  not  bring  herself  to  bow  to  whatever 
might  be  his  will.  Of  true  vital  religion,  Ellen 
and  her  husband  were  both  destitute,  and  wanting 
it,  they  wanted  the  only  solid  support,  the  only 
true  consolation  in  all  trials  of  this  mortal  life. 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


13 


One  only  object  divided  Ellen’s  affections  with 
her  husband — Allan,  their  darling  boy,  was  alike 
the  idol  of  his  father  and  mother — but  Ruthven, 
when  he  looked  on  him  with  a father’s  fondness, 
was  often  forced  to  feel  the  pain  that  our  dearest 
earthly  joys  and  comforts  bring  with  them.  The 
thought  that  he  would  leave  him  unprovided  and 
helpless,  his  mother  forlorn  and  desolate,  would 
cause  him  hastily  to  withdraw  his  eye,  and  change 
the  fond  smile  of  pleasure  to  the  bitter  boding 
sigh. 


A few  days  before  the  anniversary  of  little 
Allan’s  birth,  a party  of  our  troops  had  marched 

into  the  small  town  of . On  the  morning  of 

the  preceding  day  Ruthven  had  been  entirely  oc- 
cupied by  military  duties,  but  in  the  evening  he 
sat  with  his  wife  and  child  to  enjoy  the  cool 
breeze  at  an  open  window.  Allan  climbed  his 
knee,  and  while  he  wound  his  finger  in  the 
shining  ringlets  of  his  hair,  exclaimed,  “ Do  you 
know,  papa,  that  to-morrow  is  to  be  a very  par- 
ticular day  ?”  Ruthven  clasped  him  almost  con- 
vulsively to  his  bosom.  Ellen,  ever  anxious,  saw 
the  expression  that  passed  over  his  face,  and  in- 
quired if  he  knew  to  what  the  child  alluded? 
Ruthven  looked  in  her  face  without  speaking  of  a 
meaning  that  seemed  plain  to  him.  That  look 
was  enough:  a death-like  paleness  spread  over 
Ellen’s  faee,  Ruthven  was  alarmed,  “ Ellen  my 
dearest  love  !”  She  raised  her  head.  “ A battle !” 
Well,  and  you  a soldier’s  wife,  to  show  such 
fears ; besides,  a skirmish  is  merely  expected,  our 
brave  fellows  you  know  have  only  to  show  their 
faces.”  His  words  were  careless,  and  he  succeeded 
in  lessening  Ellen’s  fears ; but,  as  she  left  the 
room  to  put  her  little  boy  to  bed,  had  she  turned 
and  seen  the  look  with  which  he  regarded  them. 


14 


A VISIT  TO 


she  would  have  known  they  spoke  not  the  feelings 
of  his  heart — the  idea  of  the  desolate  state  of  these 
beloved  ones,  should  he  fall  on  the  morrow,  was 
agony  to  Ruthven  ; he  could  not  endure  it ; but 
catching  up  his  hat,  went  to  occupy  his  mind  by 
examining  the  preparations  that  were  making. 

But  he  soon  again  wished  to  be  alone,  the  crowd 
and  noise  in  the  streets  neither  soothed  his  mind 
nor  relieved  it  of  the  load  that  oppressed  it ; he 
walked  out  of  the  town  along  the  river  side  ; here, 
with  folded  arms  and  head  declined,  he  paced 
heavily  along,  and  tried  to  rouse  himself  from  a 
depression  he  thought  unmanly  and  dishonourable  ; 
but  the  picture  of  Ellen  alone,  unbefriended,  dis- 
tracted  at  his  loss,  again  presented  itself  to  him  ; 
and  his  boy— his  helpless  darling  boy  ! — he  stop- 
ped and  raised  his  eyes  to  the  calm  scene  above 
him;  there  all  was  peaceful,  all  was  light.  “ Heav- 
en knows  I would  not  shrink  from  death,  were  it 
not  for  you,  dear  Ellen ; many  a gallant  fellow 
would  lie  beside  me — -many  will  sleep  lowly  to- 
morrow night/* 

At  this  moment  a low  strain  broke  on  his  ear  ; 
it  was  indistinct  at  first,  as  the  voices  seemed  to 
falter,  or  fearful  of  being  heard  ; soon  they  ga- 
thered strength,  and,  wafted  on  the  cool  evening 
breeze,  the  words  they  sung  were  distinctly  heard  ; 
the  strain  died  away  by  degrees  ; once  it  seemed 
to  have  closed,  but  was  again  caught  up,  while 
louder  and  bolder  they  repeated  the  last  verse. 

If  low  we  must  lie  on  the  blood-corer’d  plain, 

To  each  of  our  spirits  let  death  be  a gain  ; 

In  Jesus  still  victors  we’ll  conquer  in  death, 

And  bless  His  great  name  with  each  quick  fleeting  breath  ; 
Then  cold  and  disfigur’d  our  bodies  may  lie, 

Our  spirits  shall  soar  to  their  home  in  the  sky* 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


15 


Ruthven  stopped  a few  minutes,  uncertain  what 
to  think,  and  then  softly  advanced  to  some  trees 
that  grew  by  the  water’s-edge,  and  from  whence 
the  sounds  that  he  had  heard  came  ; here,  partially 
concealed  by  the  spreading  foliage,  and  partly 
revealed  by  the  bright  moon-beams,  he  saw  a 
small  group  kneeling  on  the  ground : they  were 
soldiers,  and  duty  as  well  as  curiosity  made  him 
wish  to  know  how  they  were  engaged  ; he  drew 
near  enough  to  hear  what  was  said,  for  one  spoke 
for  all ; some  expressions  surprised  him,  such  as 
— 6 to  us  let  death  be  gain,— may  we  be  more 
than  conquerors  through  Him  who  loved  us — - 
but  when  he  heard  them  implore  the  favour  of 
Heaven  for  their  friends,  their  leaders,  their  king, 
and  their  country,  he  understood  their  meaning 
better,  and  unconsciously  breathed  an  Amen  to 
the  prayer — the  Amen  was  heard,  for  two  of  the 
outermost  turned  their  heads  for  a moment  in  the 
direction  where  he  stood,  but  soon  again  became 
absorbed  in  devotion. 

When  they  rose,  and  came  from  beneath  their 
leafy  screen,  Ruthven  stood  before  them  ; the 
men  started  at  seeing  him,  but  calmly  made  their 
salute. 

<c  Well,  Serjeant/’  said  Ruthven,  recognising  in 
the  leader  of  the  little  band,  a man  who,  though 
styled  a Methodist  by  his  comrades,  was  remark- 
able in  the  regiment  for  regularity  and  exemplary 
good  conduct,  “ is  this  the  way  you  get  up  your 
men’s  spirits  V9 

“ Yes,  Captain,  of  some  of  them  at  least.” 

u Why  I thought  you  were  a braver  man  than 
to  make  all  this  ado  at  .the  chance  of  deaths  I 
thought  even  the  foreboding  that  it  would  be  your 
lot  to-morrow,  would  not  frighten  you.”  Ruthven 
sighed  as  he  spoke. 


16 


A VISIT  To 


“ No,  Sir,  the  thoughts  of  death  in  itself  I call 
truly  say  never  did  frighten  me ; the  thoughts  of 
a never-terminating  existence  after  it,  did.” 

Ruthven  felt  a cold  shiver  run  over  his  body  as 
the  soldier  solemnly  pronounced  these  words  ; a 
feeling  such  as  he  could  not  describe,  nor  had  ever 
before  known,  was  excited,  while  he  murmured  to 
himself,  “ a never-terminating  existence  !”  After 
a pause,  he  said,  “ I should  be  sorry  to  doubt  that 
existence,  Morton  ; but  why  should  that  make  a 
brave  man  shrink  ?” 

“ He  is  brave  indeed,  who  can  contemplate 
unmoved,  an  eternity  of  misery.  Ah ! brave 
beyond  human  bravery.” 

“ So,  serjeant,  you  would  make  cowards  of  us 
all ; it  is  well  your  men  are  gone  off.” 

“ No,  Sir,  I would  if  I could  make  you  truly 
brave,  for  I would  make  you  Christians  ; true  re* 
ligion  makes  no  man  a coward  ; the  soldier,  under 
its  influence,  marching  into  battle,  can  feel  a holi- 
er, calmer  confidence,  than  the  most  ardent  en- 
thusiasm bestows ; he  knows  that  he  marches 
under  a leader,  who,  if  he  sees  fit,  can  cover 
his  head  in  the  day  of  battle  ; that,  unless  di- 
rected, no  weapon  raised  against  him  shall  prosper, 
and  if  he  fall  fighting  for  his  country,  he  is  to  live 
forever  with  his  Lord  ; to  him,  Sir,  death  must  be 
gain,  leave  what  he  may  upon  earth.” 

“ Morton,  you  soar  beyond  me  ; I comprehend 
not  this  high  flown  religion  ; but  if  so  much  of  it, 
as  you  and  some  others  pretend,  is  indeed  neces- 
sary, what  is  to  become  of  our  regiment,  aye,  and 
those  of  other  regiments,  whose  bodies  will  strew 
the  ground  to-morrow  evening?” 

“ It  is  a solemn  question,  Sir  ; I judge  no  man; 
but  when  I see,  amid  concern  for  wives  and  chil- 
dren, or  ambition  to  g4in  a name  on  earth,  or  to 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE,  17 

acquire  some  of  its  fleeting  honours,  no  thought  of 
the  world  that  is  to  come,  no  concern  for  the  in- 
terests of  their  never-dying  souls,  I cannot  help 
saying  to  myself,  ■ Oh  that  they  were  wise,  that 
they  understood  this,  that  they  woukt  consider 
their  latter  end  l” 

“ And  is  it  to  the  merits  of  your  prayers  and 
psalm  singing,  you  ascribe  the  assurance  that 
you  shall  be  happy  hereafter,  while  so  many  of 
your  comrades  and  mine,  who  fall  fighting  for  their 
king,  country,  and  religion  too,  shall  perish  for 
ever  ?” 

“ Ah,  Captain,  the  manner  of  your  question 
would  persuade  me  you  feel  that  more  than  those 
would  be  necessary  to  inspire  a well-grounded  be- 
lief of  eternal  happiness.  No,  Sir^  not  to  my 
prayers,  nor  praises,  not  to  my  goodness  do  I as- 
cribe the  hope  I feel ; while  I was  ignorant  of  true 
religion,  though  usually  reckoned  a brave  man, 
and  though  when  no  time  for  serious  reflection 
was  given,  I often  rushed  forward  to  the  jaws  of 
death,  from  which  God  as  often  saved  me  ; yet  in 
the  hour  of  calmness,  I secretly  trembled  at  the 
idea  of  an  after  life ; I wished  I could  be  an  unbe- 
liever in  the  existence  of  a future  state,  but,  thanks 
to  the  early  instructions  of  a pious  mother,  I could 
not.  Even  after  I had  left  off  my  bad  ways,  and 
taken  to  a very  strict  life,  I used  to  shrink  when- 
ever I thought  of  meeting  my  Judge,  of  having 
every  thought  and  action  weighed ; I felt  that  not 
even  a well-spent  life,  a glorious  death  could  en- 
sure my  acceptance  with  him  ; but  at  last,  Sir,  I 
heard  of  Jesus,  that  he  had  been  made  sin  for  us, 
that  we  might  be  made  the  righteousness  of  God 
in  Him  ; I heard  that  his  blood  cleanseth  from  all 
sin  ; I applied  to  it,  and  I do  believe  that  the  faith 
in  himself  which  He  gave,  has  purified  my  heart 
e 


I 18 


A VISIT  TO 


from  at  least  the  love  of  sin  ; that  haying  cast  my 
soul  upon  Him  for  salvation,  and  endeavoured  to 
live  to  Him,  I shall  be  with  Him  for  ever  here- 
after.'5 

“ I told  you,  Serjeant,  your  religion  was  too 
high-flown  for  me,"  said  Ruthven,  after  a minute’s 
silence.  “ Mine  is  a simple  creed  ; I desire  to 
fulfil  my  several  duties  in  life;  I do  not  wilfully 
break  God’s  commandments,  and  I trust  in  the 
end  I shall  be  as  safe  as  others  ; and  this  I can 
say,  that  the  prospect  of  death  on  the  morrow, 
would  not  on  my  own  account  be  bitter.’’  He 
paused ; but  the  pious  soldier,  seeming  to  read  his 
thoughts,  answered,  “ c Leave  thy  fatherless  chil- 
dren, and  let  thy  widows  trust  in  Me.’  Sir,  there 
is  every  comfort  in  the  Scriptures.’’ 

This  came  home  to  his  Captain’s  heart ; as  he 
turned  to  leave  him,  he  wrung  his  hand,  saying, 
C£  Morton,  by  this  time  to-morrow  we  may  know 
more  of  the  things  of  the  other  world  than  we  do 
now."  “ Oh,  then,  dear  Sir,"  cried  Morton,  for- 
getting, in  the  ardour  of  his  soul,  all  differences  of 
rank,  and  clasping  Ruthven’ s hand  in  his — “ will 
you  not,  in  the  prospect  of  perhaps  entering  soon 
on  that  unseen  world,  seek  now  to  be  prepared  for 
the  change  ?" 

Ruthven  shrunk ; the  Serjeant  inspired  him 
with  feelings  he  was  hitherto  a stranger  to ; but 
assuming  a gayer  tone,  he  said,  “ Come,  Morton, 
I cannot  listen  to  any  more  preaching  now,  it  will 
only  make  a coward  of  me." 

“ Ah,  Sir,"  replied  the  soldier  mournfully,  re- 
linquishing the  hand  he  had  held,  <f  perhaps  the 
coming  day  will  show  in  many  an  instance  that 
the  true  Christian  is  not  the  worst  soldier." 

The  following  morning  presented  a scene  of 
deep  interest : the  trampling  of  horsemen  in  the 


31 Y BIRTH-PLACE. 


19 


streets,  the  clang  of  warlike  weapons,  waving 
plumes,  and  arms  glittering  in  the  sun-beams,  all 
announced  that  the  work  of  death  was  to  mark  the 
day  ; and  from  the  windows,  pale  mothers,  holding 
their  helpless  babes  in  their  arms,  stretching  out 
to  catch  a passing  glimpse  of  the  husband  they 
might  never  see  again  : thence  many  an  anxious 
^ve  sent  its  glance  through  the  long  ranks  beneath, 
in  search  of  some  object  of  individual  interest. 

All  was  ready,  and  Ruthven  stole  a moment  to 
clasp  in  a farewell  embrace  his  Ellen  and  his  boy : 
a painful  feeling  that  he  should  see  them  no  more 
hung  over  him ; yet  he  spoke  comfort  and  hope  to 
them,  and  then,  resuming  his  post,  sought  in  the 
spirit  that  animated  others,  to  lose  their  remem- 
brance. Not  so  Ellen  ; she  listened  to  the  sound 
of  his  martial  accoutrements,  as  he  ran  down  stairs, 
with  such  intensity  of  feeling,  that  every  step 
seemed  to  accelerate  the  death  of  her  husband ; 
she  then  sat  down  to  think  of  him,  and  feel  in  an- 
ticipation the  evil  she  dreaded. 

Many  a breast  felt  anxiety  on  that  day,  but 
Ellen  thought  none  felt  as  she  did ; and,  perhaps, 
she  was  partly  right,  for  she  was  endowed  with 
those  keenly  sensitive  feelings  that  give  to  their 
possessors  the  largest  portion  of  sorrows  as  well  as 
joys  that  fall  to  the  lot  of  mortals.  At  last  the  cry 
of £ victory  !’  struck  on  her  ear  ; she  sprung  to  the 
window ; in  a short  time  the  troops  were  seen  re- 
entering the  town  ; and  Ruthven  (all  his  forebod- 
ings false)  at  the  head  of  a thinned  but  elated 
troop,  her  eager  eye  soon  discovered, — his,  passing 
over  all  intervening  objects,  was  fixed  on  the  house 
that  contained  his  heart’s  best  treasure. 

“ Thank  God !”  h&  cried  when  he  met  them 
once  again.  i(  Thank  God — thank  God  !”  repeat- 
ed little  Allan,  unconscious  of  the  meaning  of  the 


20 


A VISIT  TO 


words  he  used,  and  plucking  his  father’s  sword  to 
engage  his  attention. 

“ Well,  my  little  soldier?”  said  his  father,  rais- 
ing him  delighted  in  his  arms. 

“ No,  papa,  I’ll  not  be  a soldier !”  cried 
Allen,  drawing  back  with  a look  of  disgust,  for 
the  plume  of  his  father’s  cap  was  stained  with 
blood. 

“ Ellen,  this  boy’s  heart  will  be  as  tender  as 
your  own,  a camp  will  never  suit  him.” 

“ Oh,  I hope  not ; I hope  his  life  will  not  pass 
in  camps,”  replied  Ellen;  kissing  the  fair  soft  cheek 
of  her  darling. 

Domestic  endearments  were  soon,  however, 
obliged  to  yield  again  to  military  duties  : Ruthven 
left  them  almost  immediately,  in  order  to  oversee 
the  removal  of  the  wounded  from  the  field  of 
battle. 

Though  accustomed  to  scenes  of  blood,  the 
soldier’s  heart  is  not  always  steeled. — A groan 
was  bursting  from  Ruthven’ s breast,  as  he  trode 
again  over  the  field  of  death  ; the  Serjeant’s  words 
rushed  to  his  mind.  A cold  shuddering,  mingled 
with  a feeling  of  awe,  while  he  looked  round  on 
the  thickly-covered  ground,  and  repeated  to  him- 
self involuntarily  the  question  he  had  put  to  him— 
“What  is  become  of  their  disembodied  spirits?” 
But  he  started  from  the  soul-thrilling  enquiry. 
“ Peace  be  to  them,,  poor  fellows ; they  died  the 
death  of  the  brave !”  As  he  proceeded  on  his 
way,  through  ranks  of  dead  and  dying,  agonized 
by  the  groans  of  the  wounded,  one  deep  sigh 
caught  his  attention ; it  was  followed  by  a groan,, 
seemingly  wrung  by  agony  from  a patient  breast. 
Ruthven  turned  to  the  spot  from  whence  it  came — 
a soldier  lay  bathed  in  blood.  He  stopped — it  was 
Morton ! “ Ah,  my  poor  Serjeant,  have  you  too 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


21 


met  your  fate?’”  The  dying  man  unclosed  his 
eyes,  knew  his  Captain,  and  raised  his  now  enfee- 
bled hand  to  him.  Ruthven  grasped  it  in  his. 
His  heart  was  full ; he  picked  up  a knapsack,  and 
placing  it  under  his  head,  bent  again,  to  say  he 
would  call  the  surgeon.  The  soldier’s  glassy  eye 
feebly  spoke  his  thanks ; but,  after  a struggle,  he 
articulated,  “ No,  I am  gone !”  Ruthven,  not- 
withstanding, flew  in  search  of  him,  and  soon  re- 
turned. The  surgeon  looked  at  the  wounded 
man ; one  tremendous  gash  crossed  his  breast, 
and  his  side  was  wounded  in  two  places.  “ Ah, 
poor  fellow,  he  must  die,”  he  said,  and  then  turned 
to  give  his  aid  where  it  might  be  more  efficient. 
Morton  met  the  distressed  gaze  of  his  Captain,  a 
faint  smile  stole  over  his  stiffening  features,  he 
raised  his  hand  upwards,  as  if  by  the  action  he 
would  convey  a meaning  he  could  not  express  in 
words;  Ruthven  kneeled  on  the  ground  to  ask,  had 
he  any  trust,  any  message  he  wished  to  confide. 
“ No,”  replied  the  dying  man,  and  then  a sudden 
recollection  seeming  to  break  on  him,  he  mention- 
ed to  Ruthven  to  open  his  jacket,  and  drawing  out 
a small  pocket  Bible,  he  collected  all  his  strength 
to  say,  “*Read  this,  dear  Captain,  and  tell  your 
friends,  the  soldier  may  be  a Christian  without 
being  a coward.” 

The  life  blood  that  had  nearly  stopped  flowing, 
now  burst  forth  in  one  crimson  torrent,  and  then 
again  subsided — “ To  Him  who  was  wounded  for 
me” — — Ruthven  stooped  lower  to  catch  the  unfin- 
ished sentence,  but  Morton  would  have  committed 
his  soul  toHim  who  had  then  forever  received  it.  He 
staid  a moment  to  look  on  the  martial  countenance 
of  the  man  he  could  not  help  esteeming,  although 
he  did  not  understand  him  ; there  was  a calmness 
— a holiness  depicted  on  it,  such  as  he  had  seldom 
e* 


22 


A VISIT  TO 


seen  the  face  of  death  to  wear;* he  felt  he  could 
linger  near  him  with  a degree  of  saddened  pleasure, 
far  different  from  what  he  experienced  on  viewing 
other  lifeless  bodies.  No  cold  shuddering  crept 
through  his  veins,  as  he  thought  his  spirit  had  even 
then  entered  the  invisible  world;  he  raised  his 
eye  to  the  clear  azure  vault  with  emotions  new 
and  indescribable,  as  if  beyond  its  confines  he 
would  trace  the  flight  of  the  departed  soul ; then 
dashing  from  his  eye  the  tear  he  would  not  suffer 
to  disgrace  a soldier’s  cheek,  he  turned  away,  say- 
ing to  himself,  “ Morton,  you  were  right,  the  true 
Christian  has  proved  a brave  soldier.” 

He  placed  Morton’s  Bible  in  his  breast,  and 
continued  his  disagreeable  task,  and  o&  his  return 
he  drew  it  out;  and  relating  to  Ellen  the  substance 
of  his  conversation  with  its  late  owner,  and  the 
manner  of  his  getting  it,  he  gave  it  into  her  care, 
as  a relic  of  his  humble  friend. 

And  here  I must  pause  a moment  in  the  narra- 
tion of  my  friends’  lives ; for  in  this  part  of  them 
my  own  heart  was  up  in  adoration  to  the  God  of 
the  children  of  men,  while  I thought  how  wonder- 
ful are  his  counsels,  his  ways  past  finding  out ! 
The  natural  eye  may  see  in  these  things  but  the 
hand  of  chance,  the  eye  of  faith  beholds  in  all  a 
divine  agency  ; even  the  weapon  raised  against  the 
pious  Morton  was  Heaven-directed ; his  death  was 
to  be  the  means  of  giving  new  life  to  others,  and 
the  book  Ruthven  received  merely  as  a remem- 
brancer of  a departed  friend,  was  to  answer  a high- 
er purpose.  Mrs.  Ruthven  had  a Bible,  it  is  true, 
in  her  possession,  but  it  was  too  seldom  opened ; 
the  tale  of  the  dying  soldier  interested  her,  she 
looked  on  his  well-read  Bible  as  something  uncom- 
mon, and  read  in  it  with  more  pleasure ; at  first 
no  doubt,  she  turned  over  leaf  after  leaf  to  find 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


23 


fresh  passages  marked  by  the  hand  of  its  late  own- 
er ; but  these  passages  were  striking,  and  by  de- 
grees she  sought  them  from  other  motives,  and 
learned  to  combine  those  that  bore  upon  the  same 
point.  She  found  in  the  Scriptures  an  interest 
she  never  before  possessed ; but  it  was  gradually 
that  much  of  their  spiritual  meaning  opened  to  her 
understanding. 

She  learned  from  them  the  commonly  received 
truth,  that  God  formed  man  upright,  and  that  he 
kept  not  his  first  estate ; and  she  also  learned  that 
in  consequence  of  our  first  parents’  transgression, 
all  mankind  are  alike  included  under  the  curse  of 
their  offended  Maker  : thus  was  she  by  birth  a 
sinner ; and  then  the  law  of  God,  the  rule  given 
for  our  conduct,  appeared  more  holy  and  more 
spiritual  than  it  had  done ; she  saw  that  she  had 
broken  it  in  numberless  instances,  and  by  doing 
so  had  become  obnoxious  to  its  tremendous  sanc- 
tions : thinking  on  these  things,  Ellen  would  often 
hold  the  book  open  in  her  hand,  while  she  asked 
the  anxious  question,  ‘ wherewith  shall  I appear 
before  the  Lord  V Oh  ! blessed  be  his  name,  that 
holy  word  is  profitable  for  all  things ; it  does  not 
only  reveal  to  us  our  ruined  state,  but  points  to  a 
Saviour  ; it  not  only  convinces  us  of  sin,  but  tells 
us  of  an  atonement,  full,  free,  efficacious,  already 
made. 

A verse  with  which  Ellen,  from  a child,  was 
acquainted,  without  seeing  any  peculiar  beauty  in 
it,  was  now  read  with  delight,  and  joy,  and  thank- 
fulness,— “ Thou  shalt  call  his  name  Jesus,  for  he 
shall  save  his  people  from  their  sins.”  And  she 
would  then  desire  to  cast  her  soul  on  Jesus  alone 
for  salvation,  and  pray  that  she  might  be  numbered 
among  his  people.  Ellen’s  whole  mind  , now  re- 
ceived a different  bias ; even  in  the  hours  of  lone- 


24 


A VISIT  TO 


liness  and  anxiety  she  could  gather  happiness 
in  the  feeling  that  a friend  was  with  her 
who  loved  her  with  an  everlasting  love,  and  she 
desired  calmly  to  leave  all  her  concerns  with  one 
who  knew  what  was  best  for  her. 

In  reading  the  history  of  the  Israelites,  Ellen 
had  almost  felt  anger  at  their  ingratitude,  but  she 
soon  found  her  own  heart  was  as  ungrateful  : she 
had  long  given  to  the  creature  what  was  due  to 
the  Creator  ; her  husband  and  child  were  the  idols 
her  heart  had  bowed  down  to ; and  though  her 
feelings  of  fond  affection  towards  them  were  not 
lessened,  she  earnestly  desired  that  they  should  be 
subordinate  to  those  of  a higher  nature,  and  en- 
deavoured to  make  them  so. 

Notwithstanding  the  transient  emotions  which 
Serjeant  Morton’s  conversation  and  death  had  pro- 
duced, Ruthven  was  surprised  and  grieved  af  seeing 
the  effects  of  reading  his  Bible,  on  his  beloved 
Ellen  : he  thought  she  was  good,  pure,  and  perfect 
as  mortal  being  could  be  before,  and  wondered  at 
hearing  her  express  those  deep  sentiments  of  her 
own  unw'orthiness,  which  he  thought  degrading  to 
her  character.  At  first  he  tried  to  laugh  away 
her  strange  notions,  but  not  succeeding,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  lie  assumed  an  air  of  displeas- 
ure towards  her.  This  was  grievous,  indeed,  to 
poor  Ellen,  but  she  did  not  complain.  She  would 
say  to  herself,  “did  Christ  not  warn  his  disciples,  if 
they  would  come  after  him,  they  must  take  up  their 
cross,  and  why  should  I repine  ? May  I learn  of 
Him  to  bear  it.” 

One  of  her  greatest  comforts  was  to  take  her 
little  boy  to  some  quiet  spot,  there  to  read  the 
Scriptures,  and  speak  to  him  on  holy  things.  Her 
own  mind  deeply  impressed  with  the  necessity  of 
yielding  up  all  that  would  keep  us  from  God,  how- 


JMY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


25 


ever  dear  ; of  crucifying  our  affections  and  deny- 
ing ourselves  ; her  conversation  and  instructions 
gave  a bias  to  Allan’s  character  it  ever  afterwards 
maintained.  How  invaluable  is  a Christian  parent ! 
Allan  has  told  me,  the  lessons  of  true  wisdom  and 
virtue,  that  he  learned  sitting  at  her  feet,  or  walk- 
ing by  her  side,  were  never  forgotten. 

They  were  thus  engaged  one  day,  Ellen’s  eyes 
bent  with  maternal  fondness  on  her  son,  and  his, 
beaming  with  expression,  fastened  on  her  face, 
when  Ruthven,  who  had  been  two  days  absent" 
returned,  and  stood  a moment  in  the  open  door  to 
observe  them.  When  Ellen  saw  him,  she  sprang 
to  bid  him  welcome.  Ruthven  met  her  with  all 
his  former  warmth  and  tenderness : “ Dearest 
Ellen,  I always  find  you  in  some  sweet  domestic 
employ  !” 

Ellen’s  heart  thrilled  with  transport ; the  dread 
that  her  husband’s  affections  would  be  alienated 
from  her,  had  been  a weight  upon  her  spirits,  and 
the  removal  of  this  gave  a cheerfulness  to  her  air, 
an  animation  to  her.  conversation,  that  delighted 
Ruthven.  She  had  been  accustomed,  in  an  even- 
ing when  he  was  with  her,  to  sing  him  some  sweet 
air  ; he  had  of  late  declined  her  doing  so,  thinking 
religion  had  given  a gloom  to  her  mind  unaccordant 
with  such  things.  This  evening  he  ventured  to 
ask  for  a favourite  song  : Ellen  at  once  complied, 
though,  as  she  did  so,  she  thought,  “ Oh,  when 
shall  1^  hear  him  say , i sing  me  one  of  the  songs  of 
Zion?’  ” The  song  was  soft  and  melancholy  : it 
expressed  the  feelings  of  one  exiled  from  his  na- 
tive land,  looking  back  with  regret  to  the  days  of 
happiness  and  peace, — the  mor.bid  sensibility  of  a 
heart  sickened  with  the  world,  and  lamenting  the 
loss  of  the  friend  who  had  been  as  a rose  in  a 
path  of  thorns. 


26 


A VISIT  TO 


When  the  song  had  ceased,  Allan  said,  “ Maxi- 
ma never  sings  those  songs  when  you  are  away, 
papa.”  “ And  what  does  she  sing,  pray  ?”  “ She 

sings  sweet  pretty  hymns.” 

Ruthven  smiled,  and  drawing  the  boy  closer, 
whispered,  “ Ask  mamma  to  sing  us  one  of  those 
sweet  pretty  hymns  now.” 

-The  request,  though  made  only  through  a wish 
to  give  her  pleasure,  brought  a tear  of  delight  to  El- 
len’s eye  : she  had  adapted  the  following  words  to  a 
tune  she  knew  Ruthven  liked,  and  her  voice  fal- 
tered a little  when  she  began  to  sing  them,  for  want 
of  other  sacred  music ; but  in  the  latter  verses 
Allan’s  voice  assisted  her,  and  his  father,  for  the 
first  time,  discerned  that  in  sacred  music,  at  least, 
he  had  a sweet  and  even  fine  voice. 

When  lonely  and  sad  through  this  dark  world  we  stray, 

By  sorrows  encompass’d  around. 

While  ©f  all  the  gay  flow’rets  Hope  strewed  in  our  way, 

Not  even  the  relics  are  found. 

How  sadly  w^e  think  of  the  days  that  are  gone, 

How  dark  does  the  future  appear, 

To  tread  the  rough  path  of  this  world  all  alone— 

To  lose  every  form  that  was  dear. 

But  even  in  moments  so  gloomy  as  this, 

The  Christian  with  joy  lifts  his  eye, 

When  lonely  and  sad  it  is  comfort  and  bliss 
To  feel  that  one  sure  friend  is  nigh. 

A friend,  who  himself  all  our  sorrows  has  knoWDj 
Will  never  his  comfort  deny  ; 

And  Oh  1 it  is  sweet  when  all  others  are  down, 

To  know  that  He  ever  is  nigh. 

Where  home,  friends,  and  country,  no  more  can  be  lost, 

Faith  raises  the  sorrowing  eye, 

Says,  There  we  shall  dwell  with  the  heavenly  host. 

To  whom  Jesus  for  ever  is  nigh. 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE, 


When  they  stopped,  Ruthven  remained  leaning 
on  the  back  of  Ellen’s  chair,  Allan  was  pressed  to 
her  side,  her  arm  resting  on  his  shoulder— but  the 
party  was  soon  broken  up  by  the -.entrance  of  Mai- 
or  L~~'  7°  st0PPed  on  seeing  them,  and  apolo- 
gised  for  his  interruption  “No  interruption. 
Major,  said  Ruthven^  without  rising.  “ Mrs^ 
Ruthven’s  voice  sometimes  acts  as  a counterpoise 
to  the  hardening  influence  of  war;  she  has  been 
softening  my  spirits  and 'undoing  all  that  it  has 
done,  by  her  sweet  voice.” 

“ You  are  a happy  man,  Ruthven.” 

Ruthven  smiJed  ^ Why  do  you  not  marry 
then  Because  I fear  few  women  would  retain 
my  affections  as  long,  in  all  their  warmth  as  Mr4* 
Ruthven  does  yours.” 

Ellen  blushed,  and  Ruthven  regarding  her  with 
an  affectionate  smiie,  said,  in  a low  tone  of  voice 
hhe  is,  1.  believe,  one  of  the  most  perfect  of 
women.”  r 

Praise  from  her  husband’s  lips,  Ellen  was  not 
unaccustomed  to  : but  it  never  was  heard  with  the 
same  pleasure,  as  since  it  could  give  her  a hope 
that,  at  all  events,  he  did  not  dislike  religion. 

Major  L had  called  to  inform  Ruthven  that 
they  were  to  march  on  the  morrow  for  a village  at 
-some  distance,  on  which  the  enemy  were  approach- 
ing, and  from  its  situation,  it  was  deemed  advisea- 
ble  to  prevent  their  occupying  it.  Ruthven  wished 
his  wife  and  son  to  remain  at  the  place  where  thev 
were  by  doing  which,  he  said,  if  the  army  again 
fell  back  on  it,  they  would  escape  much  fatigue 
and  unpleasantness,  and  if  it  moved  forward  on  "the 
dispersion  ot  the  enemy,  they  could  easily  join 
Fn  -\Ut7  r,e  it  Was  Practicable  for  her  to  go, 

2“  rll  t0  d°  Sj  T?he  knew  an  engagement 
was  shortly  expected;  Ruthven  might  need  her 


28  A VISIT  TO 

care  when  she  could  not  get  to -him,  or  she  might 
see  him  no  more,  and  should  she  hasten  the  hour 
of  separation  ? She  therefore  persuaded  Ruthven 
it  was  better  that  she  should  go,  and  he  reluctantly 
consented. 

Soon  after  the  British  troops  had  entered , 

the  enemy  were  seen  occupying  the  heights,  con- 
stant skirmishes  took  place,  and  a general  engage- 
ment was  daily  expected. 

On  a lovely  April  morning,  the  arrival  of  some 
fresh  divisions  having  augmented  their  numbers, 
the  -English  forces  marched  out  to  offer  battle. 
One  feeling  seemed  to  animate  them  : they  seemed 
to  consider  victory  as  almost  the  certain  conse- 
quence of  the  day  ; and  if  here  and  there  an  ex- 
pression of  seriousness  appeared  upon  a counte- 
nance, in  general,  they  bespoke  hope,  ardour,  and 
undaunted  courage. 

Ruthven  shared  this  general  feeling ; so  often 
spared  in  more  desperate  conflicts,  he  this  day 
felt  an  unusual  confidence ; no  painful  forebodings 
mingled  with  his  affectionate  farewell  to  his  wife 
and  son:  the  preceding  day  he  had  gained  a majority, 
for  which  he  had  been  strongly  recommended  by 
his  General ; and  rejoicing  in  the  opportunity  of  so 
soon  proving  himself  worthy  of  his  new  rank,  he 
parted  with  them  in  the  hope  of  very  soon  return- 
ing. But  Ellen’s  spirits  seemed  depressed  propor- 
tionably  as  his  were  elated ; her  hopes  sunk  as  his 
rose.  She  never  felt,  not  even  the  first  day  she 
saw  him  march  to  danger,  perhaps  to  death,  as  she 
did  when,  on  gaining  the  street,  he  turned,  smiled, 
waved  his  hand,  mounted  his  horse,  and  was  lost 
in  the  crowd. 

“ Father  of  all  mercies,”  she  cried,  “ have  I 
seen  him  for  the  last  time  ?”  She  sat  down  and 
tried  to  bring  her  mind  to  be  submissive  to  the 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


29 


Divine  will ; but  when  she  thought  of  her  hus- 
band’s death,  his  death  in  battle,  she  shuddered ; 
she  trusted  she  should  not  yet  be  put  to  the  trial, 
and  the  attempt  turned  into  a prayer  for  his  safety. 
Yet  Ellen  wished  to  leave  every  thing  in  the  hands 
of  her  God,  to  stay  her  mind  on  Him,  and  by  stud- 
ying His  word,  by  earnest  prayer,  and  even  by 
speaking  with  her  son,  to  have  her  mind  in  some 
degree  prepared  for  whatever  might  be  before 
her. 

For  some  time  she  had  dreaded  intimation  that 
the  battle  raged ; the  long  and  frightful  roar  of 
musketry,  though  distant,  was  heard  from  the  back 
windows  of  the  house ; at  length,  it  died  away, 
was  renewed  again  at  intervals,  and  soon  altogeth- 
er ceased — the  inhabitants  who  had  been  endeav- 
ouring, from  eminences,  to  watch  the  fate  of  the 
day,  now  began  to  fill  the  before  deserted  street, 
and  these  were  soon  mixed  with  parties  returning 
from  the  field  : the  day  had  been  better  contested, 
and  consequently  more  bloody,  than  had  been  ex- 
pected. Victory  proclaimed  for  the  English,  but 
it  was  blood-bought ; the  remains  of  a gallant  army 
returned,  but  many  an  anxious  enquirer  met  no 
answer,  to  many  a repeated  name  no  eager  voice 
responded  ! Alas ! to  many  a home,  to  many  a 
heart,  the  tidings  of  that  day  brought  sorrow  ! 

Among  the  number  6f  agitated  enquirers  wras 
poor  Ellen ; but  in  vain  she  enquired — in  vain  she 
waited — no  tidings  or  no  Ruthven  came.  In  the 
early  part  of  the  day,  he  had  been  seen  and  heard, 
and  in  the  heat  of  the  action  many  had  seen  him 
giving  the  proof  he  wished ; but  whether  he  fell 
amongst  the  heaps  of  slain,  or  escaped  unhurt,  no 
one  said.  For  some  time  straggling  parties  com- 
ing in,  gave  her  hopes  that  with  some  of  these  he 
too  might  come,  but  this  ceased ; and  small  room 

* D 


30 


A VISIT  TO 


seemed  left  for  hope,  yet  Ellen  wished  to  be  calm  ; 
for  long  wearisome  hours  she  sat  with  Allan,  lis- 
tening to  every  sound,  starting  at  every  footstep, 
and  endeavouring  to  catch  hope  from  the  ideas  he 
suggested.— Again  she  thought  all  this  was  wrong, 
li6r  mind  was  not  yet  submissive — she  had  not  yet 
learned  to  bow  her  will  to  her  God's. 

Ellen  rose  and  went  into  the  inner  room,  there, 
easting  herself  on  her  knees,  she  implored  pardon 
tor  her  impatience ; and  continued  in  prayer  until 
she  felt  composed  and  willing  to  bear  whatever 
might  be  laid  upon  her.  Then,  sitting  down  on  a 
chair  by  Allan's  bed,  she  hoped  to  be  prepared  to 
hear  the  worst. 

She  had  not  been  long  sitting  in  this  way,  when 
a military  step  was  heard  on  the  stairs ; it  was 
slow,  but  still  it  could  be  none  but  Ruthven’s  ; the 
outer  door  opened  just  as  Ellen,  pale,  trembling, 
and  with  extended  arms,  had  sprung  to  it.  Not 
Ruthven,  but  Major  L— — met  her  disappointed 
view— the  disappointment  was  great,  so  great  that 
Ellen’s  strength,  already  exhausted,  nearly  sank 
under  it ; she  leaned  her  trembling  form  against 
the  wall,  but  could  not  find  words  to  make  the  in- 
quiry she  dreaded  to  hear  answered.  Major  L— 
took  one  of  her  powerless  hands  in  his,  “ My  dear 
Mrs.  Ruthven”— he  seemed  not  to  know  what  to 
say— u I am  grieved  to  see  you  thus.”  “ Oh  Maj- 
or L— , do  not  add  to  my  sufferings,  tell  me  at 
once,  I conjure  you,  has  he  fallen  ?” 

“ Dearest  madam,  do  not  torture  yourself  in  this 
manner  ; why  should  you  think  I am  the  herald 
of  such  dreadful  news  ? My  friend  Ruthven  lives, 
and  I hope  will  live.” 

The  concluding  part  of  the  sentence  was  un- 
noticed. “ Ruthven  lives,”  was  enough  for  Ellen. 
She  had  thought  she  was  prepared  to  hear  of  his 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


31 


death  with  fortitude,  but  the  overwhelming  joy 
whic'h  these  words  gave  her,  told  how  keen  would 
have  been  the  reverse.  She  threw  herself  upon  a 
seat,  and  burst  into  tears, — tears  of  joy  and  grati- 
tude. Major  L saw  how  she  was  affected ; 

he  turned  to  the  window,  and  Ellen  suddenly 
raising  the  face  she  had  hid,  saw  him  wipe  a tear 
from  an  eye  rarely  moistened.  It  was  now  the 
import  of  his  words  struck  her  : “ Ruthven  lives, 
and  ! hope  will  live.”  Her  tears  at  once  ceased  ; 

she  looked  earnestly  at  Major  L ; he  turned 

away  his  faqp,  on  catching  a glimpse  of  her  speak- 
ing countenance.  She  instantly  became  composed 
and  calm,  and  rising,  she  stood  beside  him  in  the 
window,  and  said,  in  a low  quiet  voice,  “ Ruthven 
is  wounded  : you  would  not,  you,  his  friend,  would 
not  be  so  cruel  as  to  conceal  it  from  me,  it  is  only 
mistaken  kindness  : do,  dear  Sir,  for  Ruthven’s 

sake,  for  my  sake,  tell  me  all?”  Major  L 

took  her  hand  in  both  of  his,  “ Yes,  Mrs.  Ruthven 
I will  tell  you  all ; for  I see,  I know  you  have  a 
mind  capable  of  sustaining  you  under  your  afflic- 
tion : Ruthven  is*  wounded,  but  not  mortally.” 

Ellen  betrayed  no  emotion  : she  was  pale  before 
and  now  she  resembled  a lifeless  statue— so  colour- 
less, so  unmoved.  Every  feature  was  motionless 
and  all  expression,  except  it  might  be  that  of  a 
fixed  sorrow,  appeared  to  have  forsaken  them.  At 
last,  as  if  speaking  to  herself,  she  said,  “ Not  mor- 
tally ; death  is  not  certain.”  She  sighed  deeply 
and  almost  unconscious  of  what  she  was  doing" 

gave  her  hand  again  to  Major  L , saying 

1 ake  me  to  him.”  He  looked  at  her  compas- 
sionately, “ Dear  madam,  he  has  not  been  brought 
here  yet.”  “No  matter,  take  me  to  him.”  He 
hesitated  “ Oh  Major,  if  you  have  any  friendship 
ior  me,  for  my  husband,  take  me  to  him ; or  tell 


S2 


A VISIT  TO 


me  where  he  is ; I will  go  to  him,  I can  find  him 
on  the  field.” 

“ God  forbid  that  I should  send  you  there ! No ; 
poor  Ruthven  was  removed,  by  my  directions,  to  a 
house  adjoining,  where  I desired  the  surgeon  to 
follow  him.  There,  if  bent  on  going,  I will  bring 
you  , but  I think  it  might  be  as  well  to  wait  the 
surgeon’s  decision,  respecting  the  propriety  of  re- 
moving him.” 

The  truth  was,  that  Major  L was  reluctant 

that  Ellen  should  go  to  Ruthven,  since,  from  the 
glimpse  he  had  of  the  wounds  he  had  received,  he 
feared  she  would  only  arrive  to  see  him  die ; but, 
in  the  joy  of  having  her  desire  granted,  she  did 
not  perceive  this.  In  a short  time  she  had  put 
together  whatever  she  thought  would  be  necessary ; 
and,  with  Allan,  who  would  not  be  left  behind, 
was  seated  in  a carriage  Major  L had  pro- 

cured to  take  them  to  the  place  where  Ruthven 
lay. 

On  the  road,  he  kindly  exerted  himself  to  divert 
Ellen’s  mind ; but  at  one  time  he  redoubled  his 
efforts,  and  seemed  desirous  of  Occupying  her  at- 
tention, to  prevent  her  looking  out ; but  though 
her  heart  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  and  she 
seemed  to  attend  to  him,  minutes  passed  away  like 
hours.  At  last  she  started  up  to  see  if  any  sign  of 
a house  was  discernible.  But  what  a scene  met 
her  !— sickened  and  shuddering,  she  fell  back. 
They  were  passing  through  the  field  of  battle  ; 
there  lay  the  mangled,  lifeless  corpses  of  numbers 
of  her  fellow  creatures  : the  hand  that  in  the  morn- 
ing, in  the  strength  of  manhood,  grasped  the 
sword,  lay  powerless  : cast  at  some  little  distance, 
the  shivered  blade  showed  how  it  had  failed  its 
owner  ; many  an  up-turned  face,  late  glowing  with 
animation,  was  there  stiffened  in  death  : the  vet- 


33 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


countr7clfimed!VnTther^ wvere^n^a^ 

there  met  in  mortal  comhat  7 g/d  them>  had 
war-horse  fallen  dead £d  l P D°  more'  The 

» w™.,  i™tBt£tSSwTh,he  cl°'; 

far  more  than  these  in  kL  u ’ these>  and 
met  Ellen’s  sight  • she  7 7*  hurned  Zknce, 

el  STT  3£.*.^ ■ “^p'eT,- 

fought  their  tafighi  endu“°r',  hare 

they  .died  as  soldiers  should  7,  g °nous  one  •’ 
honour  though  she  cannot  reward^’’ ^ ^ 

said  Allan  Ur  conifc«  a breaking  heart  ?” 

p«t  - ;r  s*  £ «.  w 

&sh"iPr^s  s sir 

rows  the  sigh  ’ that  the  g7G  t0  their  sor- 

would  not  have*  caused.  °Ught  °f  hls  ovvn  death 

Starte^up.  V was^^il  ^ e^Iaimed— Ellen  . 

tall  trees1  and  « y Cot’  d,Vided  by  a few 

field.  A’few  minu^T  st^m  from  theWdy 
Ruth ven’s.  wounds  had  been^lr^^T"  t0  7 Poor 
a httle  recovered  from  the  faim  sed’  and  he  had 
caused  by  pai„  and  loss  of  exhaustion 

of  Ellen.  “ poor  pji  \ ^ ? he  was  thinking 

"ill  comfort  h“  ,»  Si  «“  ''or,  whS 

gentle. voice  inquiring  ifV'w 5b  h“r<i  ier 

he  thought  so  ; the  next  11  P ' for  a moment 
drawing  aside  the  curin'  v'°m^ an  of  the  house 

up  to  shut  out  the  evening  S 7 bad  charitably  put 
Jt  was  not  fancy  Fllen^  SUnbeam»  showed  him' 

E n SJ,ranS  t0  ‘he  becfsufe/ 

, \r 


34  A VISIT  TO 

she  could  not  speak,  but  falling  on  her  knees  hid 
her  face  on  his  extended  hand,  with  his  other  he 
attempted  to  take  her’s,  but  had  not  strength  : 
“ Dearest  Ellen,  why"  this  distress  ? a trifling 
wound.”  Even  these  few  words  overcame  him, 

his  lips  grew  paler.  Major  L -,  who  had  just 

come  in,  thought  he  was  gone.  Ellen  rose  quick- 
ly, he  saw  the  agony  of  her  countenance,  and 
another  glance  at  Ruthven  told  him  his  apprehen- 
sion was  at  present  goundless  : Allan  brought  some 
water,  and  Ruthven  soon  opened  his  languid  eyes, 
but  was  incapable  of  speaking.  Ellen  then  re- 
solved not  to  disturb  him  again,  and  begging  every 
one  to  leave  the  room,  she  took  her  seat  beside  his 
bed,  fixing  the  curtain  so  as  to  prevent  his  seeing 
her  : here  she  resolved  should  be  her  post,  until 
attendance  in  one  case  or  other  was  no  more 
needful.  The  surgeon’s  next  visit  did  not  give 
her  much  hopes ; he  said  removal  would  most 
probably  be  fatal,  and  though  his  visits  must  nec- 
essarily be  fewer,  still  he  thought  Ruthven  would 
be  far  safer  by  remaining  where  he  was. 

When  he  was  gone  Ellen  resumed  her  seat, 
saying  to  herself,  “ Here  then  is  to  be  my  post  r 
I thank  God  I can  watch  by  my  husband,  I can  ad- 
minister to  his  comfort,  I can  soothe  his  sufferings 

until  he  recovers,  or ” she  could  not  say  “ dies.” 

u Oh  not  yet,  heavenly  Father,”  she  cried,  clasping 
her  hands  in  agony  ; “ Oh  take  him  not  yet — not 
until  he  is  thine,  thine  by  adoption  and  grace.” 

Night  and  day  Ellen  sat  unweariedly  by  the 
bed  side  of  her  suffering  husband  ; he  was  too  ill 
and  weak  to  notice  the  continuance  of  her  attend- 
ance, or  know  that  she  was  injuring  herself  in  her 
anxiety  for  him.  In  vain  the  surgeon  set  before 
her  the  consequences  of  doing  as  she  did ; in  vain 
Allan  begged  to  take  her  place  ; the  most  she 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


35 

wouid  ever  grant  was,  that  he  should  supply  it 
whde  she  took  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep  when  morn- 
ing had  dawned  ; and  often  when  that  dawn  found 

S5VeE  Tre  ie:eri8h>  weak>  or  suffering  than 
usual,  she  denied  herself  this  short  and  nectssary 

repose  until  wom.°ut  nature  compelled  her  to 
throw  herself  on  her,  son’s  mattrass,  and  then  she 

^gslumber  ^ & heaVy  and  SeneraI,y  unrefresh- 

Sometimes  when  she  hung  in  agony  over  him 
fearing  that  soul  and  body  were  about  to  disunite,’ 
her  soul  would  be  pleading  with  her  God  for  him. 
At  length  the  surgeon  told  her  that  he  thought  on 
bC  aWe  to  g,ve  a more  decided 
Sf”!™  State;  the  day  he  named  was 
bavl  df  nr  biy  E e"  Wlth  an  anxiety  those  who 
J !feIt  only  ,can  understand.  When  it  came, 
ituthven  seemed  worse  to  her  than  he  had  been 
the  preceding  day ; she  watched  the  surgeon’s 
countenance  on  his  entrance,  and  it  rather  revived 
her  hopes.  He  wished  to  be  with  his  patient  for 

bTaiJT’  f u begSed  °f  E1,en  meanwhile  to 
breathe  the  fresh  air  in  the  fields  behind  the  house. 

yielded  and  took  her  son  with  her;  it  was  a 
ovely  evening  the  air  was  balmy,  the  country, 
though  desolated  by  war,  looked  fair  in  her  eyes  ; 

of  ha?l  TUld’  She  sti11  came  in  sighi 

of  that  dreadful  field  from  which  she  turned  shud- 

graSS  Seats  raised  in  the  small  gar- 
den  afforded  a resting  place  from  whence  this 
uew  was  shut  out ; they  sat  down,  a few  sweet 

and  odour ShmbS  them  yielded  both  shade 

be  hwe!”^’”  Sa‘d  Allai’’  “k  iS  V6ry  PIeasant  to 

v.lpa  Jef’  my  loJe’  after  the  confinement  and  un- 
pleasantness of  a small  and  very  close  room,  this 


A VISIT  TO 


BG 

little  spot  appears  delightful  : l ow  sweet  then,  how 
delightful  will  that  glorious  place  appear,”  pointing 
to  the  skies,  “ after  this  sinful,  sorrowing  world?” 
“ Yet,  mamma,  if  papa  was  to  die  and  go  there 
now,  you  would  be  very  sorry,  and  Oh ! I should 
be  very  sorry  too  !” 

Ellen  clasped  her  boy  to  her  bosom ; but  she 
thought,  if  certain  that  he  gained  admittance  there, 
she  would  not,  could  not,  dare  to  repine. 

“ But,  mamma,  I am  sure  papa  will  not  die  ; 
because  you  have  often  told  me  that  God  has 
commanded  us  to  pray  to  him,  and  loves  to  answer 
prayer.  Now  I know  you  pray  for  papa’s  life, 
and  I think  if  God  gives  us  what  we  ask  for,  he 
will  give  you  papa’s  life.” 

. “ My  boy,  you  know  the  same  blessed  lips  that 
said,  4 Ask  and  ye  shall  receive,’  said  also,  ‘ Ye 
ask  and  have  not,  because  ye  ask  amiss.’  Too 
often  we  ask  for  what  we  should  not,  and  then  our 
requests  are  denied.” 

But  you  told  me  God’s  Holy  Spirit  taught  his 
children  to  pray  as  they  ought  to  do  ; and  if  this  is 
^o,  you  could  ask  for  nothing  amiss.” 

u Yes,  Allan,  I could ; and  I fear  often  do  ask 
for  things  that  would  be  bad  for  me.  When  w,e 
ask  for  the  gift  of  God’s  Holy  Spirit,  when  we 
pray  that  a new  heart  may  be  given  ns,  that  we 
may  learn  to  hate  sin  and  love  our  Saviour ; when 
we  ask  for  strength  to  fight  against  this  evil  world, 
our  own  evil  desires,  and  our  evil  enemy,  then  the 
Holy  Spirit  teaches  us  how  to  pray,  and  we  know 
that  if  we  ask  in  faith  we  shall  assuredly  receive ; but 
very  often  our  own  will,  our  own  corrupt  inclina- 
tions are  listened  to,  and  we  ask  for  things  God 
does  not  see  fit  to  grant,  and  then  it  frequently 
happens,  that  when  we  are  denied  what  we  wished 
for,  we  take  it  very  impatiently,  and  fret  under  the 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE.  37 

denial,  until  He  in,  some  way  or  other  leads  us  to 
see  our  error. 

“ Now  we  pray  that  if  it  is  His  will  your  dear 
papa  may  be  spared  to  us,  but  He  may  see  best  to 
order  it  otherwise  ; He  may  know  that  we  have 
been  too  long  without  the  rod,  that  we  need  chas- 
tisement : or — ” Mrs.  Ruthven’s  voice  faltered,  a 
tear  rolled  down  her  cheek,  as  she  added,  “ or  he 
may  know  that  our  hearts  have  been  too  much 
wrapped  up  in  him,  that  we  have  dared  to  make 
him  our  idol.” 

Allan  appeared  thoughtful  for  a moment. 
“ Mamma,  I could  not  like  papa  to  die.”  “Like! 
Oh,  my  boy”— Mrs.  Ruthven  checked  herself— 
“ no,  it  would  be  unnatural  if  you  could ; but, 
Allan,  you  must  learn  to  like  what  God  likes. 
His  will  must  be  ours  or  we  shall  be  miserable  ; 
but  when  our  will  is  laid  down,  when  we  submit 
to  be  ruled  in  all  things  by  His,  then  we  shall  feel 
happiness  in  every  state.  Happiness,”  continued 
Mrs.  Ruthven,  as  if  now  speaking  to  herself, 
“ happiness,  at  least  in  looking  forward  to  the  time 
when  that  will  shall  no  more  rise  in  opposition, 
when  earthly  affections  need  no  longer  be  cruci- 
fied.” 

At  this  moment,  as  she  sat  under  the  shade  of 
the  sweet  flowering  shrubs,  whose  pale  lilac  blos- 
soms hung  over  her  head,  her  cheek,  colourless  by 
anxiety  and  watching,  resting  on  a hand  as  white, 
and  her  eyes  meekly  regarding  the  fair  blue  cano- 
py above  them,  as  if  there  only  grief  could  be 
known  no  more — she  looked  like  the  statue,  sculp- 
tured in  pure  marble,  of  patient,  resigned  sorrow, 
calmly  contemplating  the  tomb  of  all  its  joys  and  all 
its  pleasures. 

When  Ellen  returned  to  the  house,  the  surgeon 
gave  her  the  only  ray  of  hope  she  had  received ; . 


38 


A VISIT  TO 


he  was  a humane  and  sensible  man,  and  had  never 
attempted  ato  deceive  her  respecting  her  husband’s 
state,  knowing  that  if  Ruthven  died  after  she  had 
been  led  to  think  he  would  certainly  recover,  the 
consequence  might  be  fatal  to  her — but  he  now 
told  her,  and  he  seemed  happy  in  having  it  to  tell, 
that  his  wounds  had  assumed  a much  more  favour- 
able aspect,  and  that  he  had  every  reason  to  think 
he  should  be  able,  on  seeing  him  again,  to  pro- 
nounce him  entirely  out  of  danger. 

Poor  Ellen  bore  the  good  tidings  calmly,  but 
when  she  went  to  thank  Mr.  D.  for  all  his  kind  at- 
tention to  her  husband,  she  burst  into  tears,  say- 
ing, u God  reward  you.”  As  he  shook  hands  with 
her,  parting  at  the  door  of  her  humble  abode,  he 
said,  “ When  Major  Ruthven’s  case  seemed  worst, 
I could  never  think  so  much  sorrow  was  reserved 
for  so  amiable,  so  good  a wife.”.  “ Ah,”  thought 
Ellen,  as  with  her  Bible  in  her  hand,  she  resumed 
her  seat  beside  her  husband’s  bed,  “ thus  does  the 
world  think  and  speak.” 

Ruthven,  fatigued  by  the  operation  of  having 
his  wounds  dressed,  had  fallen  into  a deep  slumber. 
Ellen  drew  aside  a corner  of  the  curtain  to  look 
at  him ; he  seemed  worn  out,  his  slumber  was  so 
still,  so  heavy,  that  he  did  not  appear  to  breathe  : 
she  almost  feared  his  spirit  had  passed  away  ; the 
idea  in  this  case  was  soul-harrowing,  and  starting 
from  it,  to  remove  the  sensation  it  caused,  she 
gently  touched  the  hand  that  lay  outside  the 
clothes— though  pale  and  thin  compared  to  what 
it  had  been,  the  warmth  told  her  life  was  still  wan- 
dering, though  languidly,  in  those  veins.  She 
drew7  back,  quietly  murmuring  half  aloud,  “ Oh 
God,  convert  his  soul !”  Ruthven  unclosed  his 
eyes;  her  touch  though  light  had  dissipated  his 
slumbers,  he  heard  the  words,  and  the  unaffected 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


39 

lervour  of  the  spirit  that  breathed  in  them,  affected 
him.  “ Pray  your  God.  my  Ellen,  to  make  me 
such  as  you  are.”  Ellen  was  surprised,  thou-rh 
not  very  sorry,  that  she  had  been  overheard.  “\t, 
would  be  but  a poor  standard  to  propose!  dear 
Ruthven,  but  I do  pray  him  to  make  you  what  be 
will  approve  of,  to  make  you  a sincere  follower  of 
he  Lord  Jesus.”  “ Your  prayers  in  any  case,  my 
love,  must  be  profitable.”  Ruthven  closed  his 
eyes  again,  and  Ellen  took  up  her  Bible  to  seek  in 
it  tor  consolation,  direction  and  encouragement 
lifting  up  from  time  to  time  a heart-breathed 
prayer  to  the  God  it  revealed,  that  He  would  make 
himself  known  to  the  beloved  ones  of  her  soul  arid 
teach  them  more  perfectly  the  way  of  salvation. 

Mr.  D — was  not  mistaken  in  his  opinion  of 
his  patient ; the  next  time  he  called  at  the  cottage 
lie  was  able  to  declare  him  out  of  danger.  'The 
transport  with  which  his  tidings  were  received  by 
EJlexi  is  well  known  to  those,  who  like  her,  have 

“i  f eS'  e thf  SuffT‘n2  C0Uch  ‘heir  dearest 
earthly  friend,  and  trembled  at  the  thoughts  of  the 
terirnnation  of  their  watchings,  attendance,  anxie- 
ties. But  her  joy  did  not  vent  itself  in  idle  ebulli- 
tions ; while  the  surgeon  remained  with  Ruthven 
taking  her  son’s  hand,  she  invited  him  to  join  her 
in  thanksgiving  to  the  Father  of  all  mercies.  The 
house  affording  no  spot  of  retirement,  they  went  to 
he  little  arbour  among  the  trees,  and  there  kneel- 
ing together,  the  pious  mother  and  her  son  vented 

me  gratitude  with  which  their  hearts  overflowed 

JVor  only  so,  Ellen  implored  a continuation  of  past 
mercies,  the  bestowal  of  fresh ; and  while  she 

Setdb0rherSeInf’  that  wisdom>  Srace  and  strength 

truth  thafT  her  ? TaIk,Steadily  in  the  paths  of 
vorlbin  ? It  might  deIivered  from  creature- 
worship,  from  the  entanglements  of  earth,  and  ena- 


40 


A VISIT  TO 


bled  to  set  an  example  of  faith,  holiness,  meekness, 
patience  ; she  did  not  forget  her  husband  and  her 
chifd,  that  the  life  of  the  one,  now  redeemed  from 
the  grave,  might  be  henceforth  devoted  to  his  God, 
a reasonable  sacrifice,  acceptable  through  faith  in 
the  Redeemer ; that  the  other,  like  holy  Samuel, 
being  yet  a child,  might  be  taken  to  serve  the 
Lord,  might  early  enter  His  spiritual  temple,  and 
find  His  service  great  delight.” 

Allan  long  remembered  that  prayer,  remember- 
ed the  holy  expression  that  beamed  on  his  moth- 
er’s features  when  she  arose,  and,  embracing  him, 
said,  “ Allan,  I trust  we  wished  to  bow  our  will  to 
the  Lord’s ; He  has  not  now  tried  us,  but  shall  we 
not  learn  to  love  His  will,  to  trust  in  Him  for- 
ever?” 

« I kissed  her  hand,”  Allan  said  in  after  years 
to  me,  “ and  then  wiped  away  with  her  gown,  the 
tear  I dropped  on  it.” 

Insensible  to  almost  every  thing  but  suftenng 
and  weakness,  the  consequences  of  Ellen’s  con- 
stant attendance  upon  him  had  not  struck  Ruth- 
ven  as  it  otherwise  would  : though,  on  finding  her 
at  all  hours  ready  to  administer  to  his  every  want, 
anticipating  his  very  wishes,  he  would  often  ex- 
press  in  broken  sentences,  his  tear  that  she  would 
harass  herself;  he  still  did  not  observe  that  his 
feeble  remonstrance  was  unattended  to.  It  was 
not  until  he  was  freed  from  acute  pain,  and  re- 
covering  his  strength,  that  he  saw,  with  distress 
and  alarm,  the  faded  cheek  and  drooping  form  of 
his  more  than  ever  beloved  wife.  He  was  taking 
from  her  hand  a drink  she  had  prepared,  when 
her  altered  looks  struck  him.  “Dearest  Ellen, 
how  pale  you  look,  how  thin  you  are  grown!” 
Ellen  smiled,  but  that  smile  seemed  to  maxe  her 
look  paler,  thinner  still.  Ruthven  laid  down  the 


Ml  BIRTH-PLACE. 


41 


Uniasted  draught “ My  love,  you  have  forgotten 
yourself  in  anxiety  for  me.  Oh,  Ellen,  Ellen  1 
were  your  life,  your  health,  to  be  the  sacrifice  for 
mine — would  to  God  I had  died  before  ever  I left 
the  field  !” 

“ Hush  ! hush  ! dear  Ruthven,  do  not  speak 
so.  If  my  health,  or  even  my  life  was  lost,  I trust 
you  would  not  murmur,  but  rather  bless  God  for 
granting  you  a longer  date,  if  it  was  to  be  the 
means, — ” Ellen  hesitated  for  a second,  “ if  it  was 
to  be  the  means  of  securing  your  eternal  salvation, 
by  allowing  time  to  seek  an  interest  in  our  Re- 
deemer’s death.  Oh,  for  these  blessings,  the  sac- 
rifice of  myself  I could  count  all  joy  !” — But  seeing 
the  distress  of  Ruthven’ s countenance,  she  added, 
**  Yet  why  think  my  health  or  life  has  been  en* 
dangered  ? Believe  me,  I never  felt  more  free 
from  any  kind  of  illness  : confinement  and  anxietV 
may  have  stolen  away  the  little  rose  that  ever 
bloomed  on  my  poor  cheek,  but  Mr.  D— — ’s  visit 
last  week  recruited  my  spirits  ; and  when  you  can 
walk,  with  me  in  yonder  fields3  I think,  if  joy  and 
happiness  can  bestow  a colour,  mine  will  resemble 
the  damask  rather  than  the  blushing  rose.” 

The  liveliness  of  her  manner  relieved  Ruthven’s 
apprehensions ; and  when  he  was  sufficiently  re* 
covered  to  move  about  the  little  apartment,  with 
the  assistance  of  Allan  and  herself,  joy,  as  she 
said,  lent  a glow  to  her  cheek— an  animation  to 
her  manner,  that  banished  them  entirely.  Nor 
did  her  solicitude  for  him  end  with  his  danger  : 
for  she  watched  every  variation  of  his  face, 
prepared  herself  whatever  he  was  to  take  ; flew  to 
his  help  when  he  wished  to  change  his  posture, 
Ruthven  felt  that  he  had  not  before  known  her 
value.  “ My  Ellen,”  he  said,  one  day  when  she 
brought  a foot-stool  she  had  formed  from  an  old 
E 


42 


A VISIT  Tfc 


military  cloak,  and  tenderly  raised  his  foot  upon  it 
— <c  What  should  I do  without  you  ! You  are  all 
the  world  to  me  ! Oh  ! how  much  I pity  them 
who  have  not  such  a friend  !”  “ Oh  ! how  much 

I pity  them  who  have  not  a friend  far  exceeding 
all  that  I could  be  ! Human  friends  may  deceive  : 
the  truest,  faithfullest,  may — nay,  one  time  must 
leave  us.  There  is  but  One,  who  is  the  same  yes- 
terday, to-day,  and  for  ever.”  “ I remember,  El- 
len, a hymn  you  sang  me  once  ; will  you  sing  it 
again  V’ 

“ Yes  ; and  Allan  shall  join.” 

It  was  in  this  manner  this  truly  amiable  wife 
and  mother  endeavoured  to  give  every  trifle  a turn, 
which,  without  the  air  of  forcing  religion  upon  her 
husband,  might,  through  the  good  blessing  of  God, 
be  made  instrumental  in  leading  him  to  prove  its 
power,  and  love  its  service. 

Though  Ellen  had  longed  for  Ruthven’s  recov- 
ery, yet,  when  it  brought  with  it  the  prospect  of 
his  again  joining  the  army,  she  almost  wished  it 
had  not  been  so  rapid  : but  Ruth  veil,  though  he 
loved  his  gentle  nurse,  was  impatient  to  share  in 
the  victories  of  his  companions  in  arms  ; and  ac- 
cordingly, as  soon  as  returning  health  and  strength 
permitted,  he  joined  them.  His  military  spirit 
was  not  abated,  and  his  mind  soon  again  became 
completely  engrossed  in  the  affairs  of  his  profession. 
Ellen  saw  his  late  danger  had  produced  no  saluta-* 
ry  effect  in  leading  him  to  think  more  of  the  one 
thing  needful ; and  this  was  no  light  grievance  to 
her.  Her  manner  of  life  was  not  calculated  to 
strengthen  a constitution  naturally  delicate,  and 
her  late  fatigues  and  anxieties  had  completely  shak- 
en it ; yet,  so  insensibly  did  she  decline,  that 
Ruthven  for  a considerable  time,  could  not  bring 
himself  to  think  that  she  was  at  all  in  a dangerous 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


43 

condition  . lie  still  cherished  the  pleasing  hope, 
that  being  now  free  from  the  care  and  anxiety 
which  she  had  experienced  in  attending  upon  him, 
in  a short  time  she  would  again  be  reinstated  in 
her  former  health.  Each  succeeding  day,  howev- 
er, having  only  served  to  prove  the  fallacy  of  his 
hopes,  Ruthven  came  to  the  determination  of  re- 
turning, at  least  for  a time,  to  his  native  land,  in 
the  hope  that  it  might  prove  beneficial  in  restoring 
health  to  his  beloved  Ellen  ; to  whom  he  took 
the  earliest  opportunity  of  mentioning  his  de- 
sign. 

Ellen  listened,  well  pleased  ; and  in  the  con- 
templation of  pleasures  yet  awaiting  her  in  her 
native  land,  began  to  forget  that  she  had  looked 
forward  to  speedily  reaching  the  shores  of  a still 
happier  country. 

She  soon,  however,  awaked  from  her  dream, 
and  started  to  find  how  content  she  had  been  to 
remain  an  exile  from  her  true  home.  The  cam- 
paign had  just  opened  ; and  though  Ruthven  was 
anxious  to  take  her  home,  she  saw  nothing,  less  * 
dear  to  him  than  her  health  or  life,  could  compel 
am  to  resign  at  this  juncture.  She  felt  every  day 
that  she  was  more  rapidly  hastening  to  her  end  : 
and  then  lonely  and  sad,  Ruthven  would  doubly 
1 egret  the  step  he  had  taken  ; she,  therefore,  rath- 
ei  delayed  than  hastened  his  purpose.  He  was 
engaged  almost  constantly  abroad,  and  did  not 
know  her  real  state  : but  sometimes  she  was  re- 
duced to  that  state  of  debility,  that  Allan  support- 
ed her  m his  arms,  dreading  to  seedier  die:  These 

hours  of  suffering  were  not  unblessed,  and  the 
words  that  fell  from  his  beloved  mother,  came 
fraught  with  instruction  to  Allan’s  heart. 

Trembling  lest  she  should  be  taken  from  him 
he  urged  his  father  to  hasten  his  departure  : and 


44 


A VISIT  TO 


Rath  veil,  not  less  anxious,  though  not  so  well 
aware  of  her  imminent  danger,  told  him  that  on 
the  next  day  he  would  send  in  his  resignation  : 
and  then,  as  no  time  should  be  lost,  added,  as  if 
to  reconcile  himself  to  it,  “ her  life  is  dearer  to  me 
than  all  things.”  The  next  day,  however,  he 
found  there  was  yet  work  for  him  to  do. 

On  the  opening  of  the  campaign,  a strong  divis- 
ion of  the  enemy’s  forces  laid  siege  to  S- , while 

their  main  body  moved  onward  towards  that  of  the 
British.  The  garrison  at  S— — was  small,  and  it 
was  expected,  would  be  forced  to  surrender,  if  as- 
sistance did  not  soon  arrive  : it  was  therefore  pro- 
posed, that  a body  of  troops  should  set  out  that 
evening,  and  by  a forced  march,  throw  themselves 
into  the  town  by  day-break.  Ruthven  had  waited 
mi  the  General,  to  acquaint  him  with  his  motives 
for  resigning  and  leaving  the  post  of  honour,  just 
as  he  was  consulting  with  some  of  his  officers  on 
the  plan  to  be  pursued  ; and,  as  an  officer  of  tried 
courage  and  known  ability,  before  he  had  made 
his  business  known,  he  offered  the  command  to 
him.  Forgetful  of  every  thing  but  the  honorable 
opinion  his  General  entertained  of  him,  and  the 
opportunity  of  again  distinguishing  himself,  Ruth- 
ven instantly  accepted  the  office.  But  a moment’s 
reflection  brought  other  recollections ; and  he 
sighed  as  he  thought  of  the  effect  this  might  have 
on  poor  Ellen.  The  General  observed  the  shade 
that  had  gathered  on  his  before  animated  counte- 
nance—a What,  Major,  thinking  of  dangers  and 
difficulties-?”—' “ No,  General,  I was  not  thinking 
of  myself,”  said  Ruthven,  starting  from  his  reverie. 
It  was  some  hours  before  he  could  return  to  Ellen 
she  knew  he  had  gone  to  offer  his  resignation, 
and  when  he  did  return,  looked  up,  expecting  to 
hear  him  say,  “ Now  I am  free  ; we  will  go  home 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


45 


but  he  did  not ; sitting  down  beside  her,  he  pulled 
out  the  paper,  saying,  “ Not  presented  yet,  Ellen.” 
Your  own  time,  Ruthven,  will  suit  me  ; in- . 
deed, , I would  rather  you  did  not  withdraw  yet  a 
little.”  “ In  two  days,  my  love,.  I hope  ; but  I 
lound  our  General  had  something  for  me  to  do 
first,  and  as  I wished  to  withdraw  with  a good 
grace,  I could  not  refuse.” 

Ellen  raised  a trembling  glance  to  his  face. 
She  had  long  been  accustomed  to  read  his  counte- 
nance ; and  now,  though  the  hectic  colour  rose 
upon  her  cheek,  and  fading  again,  left  it  pale  as 
marble,  she  only  said,  “ He  know'eth  what  is  best 
for  us.”  Ruthven  had  often  admired  the  beauty 
of  the  religion  that  influenced  his  wife’s  conduct, 
but  never  more  than  at  this  instant.  She  had 
committed  herself,  and  all  that  she  loved,  into  the 
hands  of  her  heavenly  Father  ; praying  Him  to  do 
with  them  as  he  saw  best  for  their  eternal  welfare  ; 
and  she  wished  to  leave  them  there,  and  to  be 
still,  and  to  see  in  every  dispensation.  His  over- 
ruling hand. 

This  pious  dependence  seemed  now  to  lend  her 
strength.  She  drew  from  Ruthven  an  account  of 
the  destined  expedition.  She  listened  as  if  she, 
too,  took  share  in  her  country’s  glory — as  if  she 
valued  the  laurels  at  which  he  grasped  : but  as  he 
was  leaving  the  room,  she  said,  “Oh  that  he  would 
seek  the  nonour  that  cometh  from  above  !” 

Ruthven  heard  her,  and  came  back— “ Ellen  ” 
said  he,  “ the  soldier’s  fate  is  uncertain , the 
prayer  of  the  righteous  availeth  much — will  you 
pray  for  me  ?”  3 

Deaiest  Ruthven,  do  you  suppose  you  are 
ever  forgotten  in  my  poor  prayers  !” 

At  another  time  the  allusion  to  the  soldier’s  fate 
would  not,  perhaps,  have  been  borne  with  equal 


46 


A VISIT  TO 


calmness ; but  Ellen’s  mind  seemed  strengthened 
by  her  body’s  weakness.  That  body  was  fast 
sinking  : when  Ruthven  returned  to  take  leave  of 
her,  she  feared  her  little  strength  would  fail  in 
the  moment,  of  parting.  “ Farewell,  William! 
My  beloved  William,  fhrewell,  if  we  meet  no  more 
here,  Oh  ! seek,  through  the  efficacy  of  a Saviour’s 
blood  and  righteousness,  to  ensure  acceptance  at 
that  bar  where  I must  shortly  appear?’ 

“ Ellen,  Ellen,”  cried  Ruthven,  “ do  not— in 
pity  do  not,  speak  so ; do  not  let  your  spirits  sink, 
and  break  my  heart  by  speaking  of  death.  Oh, 
my  love,  you  are  all  to  me  ! A gracious  God 
knows  you  are  necessary  to  me— to  our  son.  He 
will  leave  you  with  us.  In  a very  few  days  we 
shall  prepare  to  return  to  your  own  native  vale ; and 
past  sorrows  and  anxieties  shall  all  be  forgotten 
in  peace  and  happiness.” 

“ Ruthven,  you  are  now  going  to  face  danger: 
perhaps — Ellen  shuddered— u perhaps  death — - 
willingly,  joyffilly,  would  I die  in  your  place  ; for, 
though  kind,  upright,  honourable— though  as  a 
a friend,  a husband,  a father,  none  could  lay  any 
thing  to  your  charge  ; yet,  my  too  fondly-loved 
husband,  I fear — Oh  greatly  fear,  that  you  are  not 
prepared  to  stand  before  a God  so  pure,  so  holy,, 
that  the  sin  which  cleaves  to  our  very  best  actions, 
would  banish  the  purest  from  his  presence,  who 
had  not  fled  for  refpge  to  the  blood  that  cleanseth 
from  all  sin.  This — this  alone,  is  my  plea — my 
claim  for  mercy  ; no  goodness  of  my  own  have  I 
to  boast.  Oh,  that  you  would  apply  to  the  Sav- 
iour that  I found,  for  faith  to  make  it  your’s.” 
Ruthven  was  silent ; but  Ellen  saw  that  he  was 
not  unaffected.  She  stopped  to  allow  him  time  to 
speak,  but  he  did  not ; and  knowing  he  must  very 


31 Y BIRTH-PLACE. 


47 


*oon  leave  her,  she  proceeded  to  express  another 
wish. 

Leaning  forward  on  the  couch,  she  looked  iri  his 
face  with  one  of  her  accustomed  smiles,  3vhich, 
though  its  playfulness  w as  now  gone,  w^as  sweet  as 
ever.  “ William,  I have  another  request  to  make 
— you  were  ever  wont  to  grant  my  requests.”  A 
large,  round  drop  fell  from  Ruthven’s  eye  upon  her 
cheek,  as,  almost  suffocated  writh  emotion,  he  pres- 
sed it  to  his.  Ellen’s  smile  faded : she  wiped 
away  the  tears  that  streamed  down  her  pale  face, 
arid  then  suppressing  her  emotion,  still  holding 
her  husband’s  hand  between  her’s,  spoke  to  him 
on  the  subject  that,  next  to  his  own  eternal  inter- 
ests, lay  nearest  her  heart : — “ My  dearest  William. 
I have  long  wished,  but  still  put  off  to  the  parting 
hour,  to  speak  to  you  my  last  w ishes  respecting 
our  boy.  Since  that  blessed  time,  w^hen,  by  the 
reading  of  the  pious  Morton’s  Bible,  it  pleased  a 
merciful  God  to  give  me  juster  ideas  of  myself  and 
Him — to  show  w hat  a holy  service  a holy  God  re- 
quires— how  miserable  a sinner  I wras — howr  much 
I needed  a Saviour,  and  what  an  imperious  claim 
lay  on  me  to  devote  myself  to  Him — to  live  to  him, 
and  serve  him  in  despite  of  the  sneers,  the  reproach- 
es, or  opposition  of  the  world  ; since  that  time  it 
has  been  my  unceasing  effort  to  give  our  dear  Al- 
lan the  same  views — to  train  him  up  in  that  path 
which  can,  I am  convinced,  alone  lead  to  true 
happiness  here  and  hereafter.  W~hen  I am  gone, 
he  will  miss  one  wrho  was  ahvays  at  hand  to  admon- 
ish, counsel,  direct ; he  will  miss  her  when  he  be- 
gins to  need  her  most : in  future  life  he  w ill  meet 
many  a temptation . to  leave  off  the  w ay s of  holi- 
ness : his  path  seems  to  be  more  peculiarly  beset 
with  evils,  wThich  nothing  but  the  pow  er  of  Divine 
grace  can  enable  him  to  escape  from.  I trust, 


48 


A VISIT  TO 


young  as  he  is,  lie  is  a child  of  God- — as  such,  he 
will  be  preserved,  I would  hope,  from  final  ruin  ; 
but  he  may  draw  much  unhappiness  on  his  own 
head,  by  imbibing  a worldly  spirit. — Nor  is  it  in 
man  to  judge  whether  the  hopes  I have  formed  of 
him  may  not  be  fallacious  ; he  may  only  act  in 
conformity  to  my  wishes  and  example,  and  have 
learned  my  sentiments,  without  experiencing  the 
same  renovation  of  heart.  If  this  is  the  case,  I 
see  little  to  preserve  him  in  after  life,  but  the  re- 
mains of  those  impressions  I hope  he  has  received. 
What  I would  ask  of  you,  dear  Ruthven,  is — nev- 
er, by  word  or  deed,  to  lessen  the  effect  of  these 
impressions — never,  however  detrimental  you  may 
think  it  to  his  advancement  in  the  world,  to  seek 
to  turn  him  from  the  way  in  which  he  has  hitherto 
gone,  or  force  him  to  act,  in  the  slightest  degree, 
contrary  to  his  own  ideas  of  right.” 

Ruthven  readily  promised  all,  and  mor§  than 
his  wife  asked  ; and  soon  after,  with  a distracted 
heart,  took  leave  of  her,  and  headed  the  party 
destined  for  the  relief  of  S . 

Ellen  watched  them  from  the  window ; she 
shook  like  the  light  leaf  in  the  breeze,  while  lean- 
ing on  Allan’s  shoulder,  she  saw  the  gallant  band 
move  off,  followed  by  the  good  wishes  of  their 
comrades,  who  remained.  Her  eye  was  fixed  on 
one  alone  ; and  as  long  as  a glimpse,  even  of  his 
nodding  plume,  could  be  seen,  she  maintained  her 
station  : when  all  was  gone,  that  eye  was  raised 
with  her  heart  in  fervent  supplication,  and  then 
she  turned  away.  What  passed  that  night  between 
God  and  her  soul,  is  known  to  Him  alone  : but 
the  next  morning,  though  Ellen  looked  worn  out 
wjth  illness,  anxiety,  and  want  of  sleep,  she  was 
patient,  calm,  resigned,  during  the  day;  and  having 
laid  down  on  the  sofa,  she  fell  into  a short  slumber ; 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


49 


on  awaking,  she  saw  Allan  leaning  his  face  on  the 
arm  of  her  couch,  and  gazing  on  her  altered  coun- 
tenance, with  looks  of  intense  anxiety,  and  deep 
melancholy.  “ Allan,  it  is  a serious  thing  to 
die.” 

“ Dear  Mamma  ! why  will  you  always  talk  in 
this  way  ; you  will  not  die  ! Oh  do  not  say  so !” 
“ God  says. so,  my  son.”  Mrs.  Ruthven  put  her 
arm  round  her  son’s  neck,  and  drew  him  close  to 
her  : “ Dear  boy  ; my  comfort,  my  solace — it  is 

hard  to  leave  you  exposed  to  all  the  evils  of  this 
bad  world  ; hard  to  part,  and  leave  your  inexperi- 
enced youth  to  tread  the  uphill  path  of  a Christian 
life,  without  the  encouragement,  the  guidance  of 
one  true  Christian  friend.” 

“ My  mother,  my  mother,  I cannot  part  with'  you ! 
Who  will  speak  to  me  as  you  do  ! Who  will  ad- 
vise me,  and  teach  me  ! Who  will  be  my  kind 
companion — my  always  affectionate  friend  !” 

Mrs.  Ruthven  and  her  son  wept  together  in 
silence  ; but  soon,  raising  her  head — “ Allan,”  she 
said,  “1  have  erred;  I spoke  of  you  as  being,  after 
my  death,  left  without  one  to  supply  my  place.  I 
was  wrong  ; God  himself  will  be  your  friend,  your 
guide,  your  all— ^His  holy  word  your  counsellor,  its 
promises  exceeding  rich  and  precious,  your  sup- 
port, its  examples  your  encouragement.” 

Mrs.  Ruthven  then  proceeded  to  give  her  son 
advice  respecting  his  future  w7alk  in  life,  on  which 
that  life,  as  I draw  sketches  from  it,  will  be  the 
best  comment.  Weakness  obliged  her  to  stop,  but 
she  still  seized  every  moment  of  strength  and  ease 
to  enforce  upon  his  mind  the  truths  she  had  taught ; 
she  continued  ill  and  weak  all  night,  but  her  mind 
was  kept  stayed  upon  God  : once  she  seemed  dis- 
tressed; Allan,  ever  watchful,  heard  her  sigh  deep* 
ly  ; he  rose  and  crept  to  her  bed  ; she  did  not  per- 


oO 


A VISIT  TO 


ceive  him  ; but  again  sighing,  she  murmured,  “ Oh 
my  poor  husband,  Lord,  hear  my  prayers,  let  my 
cry  come  unto  thee.”  Allan  breathed  a silent 
amen,  and  retired  again. 

Returning  day  brought  with  it  no  returning 
health  for  Ellen  ; she  was  unable  to  leave  her  bed” 
and  Allan  kept  his  place  beside  it ; all  his  tender- 
ness, love  and  affection,  were  now  called  forth, 
and  endeared  him  doubly  to  his  fond  parent.— 
TVhile  he  gave  with  gentlest  care  the  draught  she 
wished  for,  smoothed  her  pillowy  or  supported  her 
weakened  frame  in  his  arms,  she  regarded  him 
with  looks  of  maternal  love,  and  wondered  how  a 
boy  nurtured  in  camps,  accustomed  from  his  earli- 
est age  to  society  best  tending  to  harden  and 
roughen  the  mind,  should  possess  such  a feminine 
softness,  such  acute  sensibility,  a modesty  almost 
amounting  to  bashfulness,  and  as  great  a diffidence 
of  strangers  as  if  never  used  to  meet  them.  “ But 
why  do  I wonder  that  he  is  such  as  he  is,”  she 
would  think  ; “ he  was  given  to  bless  and  cheer 
my  earthly  way,  and  did  I part  with  him  for  aught, 
but  to  go  to  him  who  gave  the  blessing,  severe  in- 
deed would  be  the  trial.” 

Three  wearisome  days  had  passed  since  Ruth- 
ven  s departure  ; they  had  been  spent  in  pain  and 
suffering  by  his  unrepining  wife.  “ He  may  re- 
turn,” she  wnuld  say,  as  returning  night  marked 
the  close  of  another  day  of  suspense  ; “ he  may 
return  ; but  I shall  see  him  no  more  in  this  world, 
if  that  return  is  not  soon  indeed.”  The  change 
in  her  complaint  again  led  her  to  think  she  was 
mistaken  : she  woke,  after  a quiet  sleep,  much 
refreshed,  took  some  nourishment,  and  exchanged 
her  bed  for  the  couch  in  the  next  room  : here  she 
spoke  to  Allan  on  subjects  high  and  holy ; she  felt 
that  time  for  her  would  soon  be  no  more,  and 


my  birth-place. 


51 


every  fast-fleeting  breath  she  wished  to  devote  to 
her  God  to  her  child,  and,  if  she  yet/had  one,  to  her 
husband.  J he  soft  hour  of  twilight  now  stealing 
on  suited  well  the  frame  of  both  their  minds,  and 
hillen,  leaning  back,  lay  a while  in  silent  meditar 
tion,  out  still,  thoughts  of  Ruthven  would  mingle 
with  other  things.  Half  rising,  and  looking  tow- 
ards the  window,  as  if  to  see  whether  it  were  so  late 
as  the  appearance  of  the  room  seemed  to  say  “ No 
news  from  S— yet,”  she  said,  again  drawing 
. back  No  news  yet,”  repeated  Allan,  “ but  that 
speaks  well,  I think,  for  their  success.”  “ I trust 
they  have  succeeded.”  A deep  sigh  followed. 

( muf  not  gtgh  so,  Mamma,  I feel  almost 

confident  that  my  father  will  return  safe.”  “ Yes 
A Han  I trust  my  prayers  have  been  heard  ; I have 
asked  life  for  him— long  life,  even  for  ever  and 
ever;  I have  prayed  that  he  might  not  be  cut  off 
ram  this  life,  until  that  to  come  was  secured  to 
J1" n t!iJ°ugh  Jesus  Christ ; and  I feel  that  he  will 
be  spared,  though  not  for  me.” 

She  had  hardly  finished  speaking,  when  the 
quicK  trampling  of  horses’  feet  startled  them 

1 hat  horseman’s  speed  speaks  tidings  from  S— 
perhaps.  Allan  threw  up  the  window,  and  lean- 
mg  out  exclaimed,  “ My  father !”  The  next  in- 
fctant,  Ruthven  stopped  under  it. 

1 he  party  he  had  commanded  had  been  suc- 
cessful ; on  its  arrival  at  S , the  garrison  had 

made  a sally  upon  the  enemy,  entirely  routed  them 
and  made  themselves  masters  of  a great  part  of 
their  baggage  and  ammunition. 

Ruthven  was  warmly  complimented  bv  the 
commanding  officer  on  his  conduct, — but  military- 
glory  at  this  time  failed  of  raising  his  spirits  “ I 
must  send  advice  of  this  to  the  General  directly  ” 
said  the  commanding  officer.  “ fc  will  bear  the 


[j#  A Vigil'  VO 

dispatches,”  cried  Ruthven  ; I should  be  glad  to 
return  immediately  ” The  officer  turned  away* 
saying,  in  a whisper,  to  a subaltern  who  stood  near, 
“ Major  Ruthven  used  not  to  be  the  trumpeter  of 
his  own  fame.”  “ You  mistake,”  replied  the  other, 
“ a far  different  cause  makes  him  wish  to  rejoin  the 
General— he  has  a wife  whom  he  adores*  she  is,  I 
hear,  dying*  perhaps  ere  this  dead.”  “ Oh,  enough,” 
cried  the  officer  who  addressed  him,  and  who  had 
himself  a wife  and  four  children  in  England,  “ I 
was  indeed  mistaken.”  The  dispatches  Were  soon 
ready,  and  Ruthven,  urging  his  horse  to  his  full 
speed,  reached  the  place  of  his  destination  in  safe- 
ty. The  dispatches  were  read,  and  he  was 
thanked  and  praised  for  his  behaviour.  “ I have 
ended  well,”  thought  Ruthven.  He  drew  the  re- 
signation which  he  had  still  kept  there  from  his 
breast,  and  laying  it  on  the  table,  shortly  mention- 
ed his  reason  for  resigning,  thanked  the  General 
and  Officers  who  stood  by,  for  their  favourable 
opinion  of  him,  and,  fearful  of  betraying  his  feelings, 
hurried  away,  threw  himself  on  his  horse,  and 
rode  as  if  a similar  journey  to  that  he  had  just 
taken,  lay  before  him. 

Allan’s  exclamation  on  seeing  his  father,  sent 
the  blood  back  to  Ellen’s  heart,  a faintness  came 
over  her,  she  endeavoured  to  rise,  but  sank  again  : 
Allan  ran  down  to  meet  his  father ; she  heard  his 
voice  eagerly  enquiring  for  her,  and  the  sound  re- 
vived her  ; she  got  up,  and  staggered  towards  the 
door.  “ My  own  Ellen,  all  your  anxieties  are 
over  ! my  last  light  is  fought,  now  we  will  go 
home.” 

Ellen  raised  her  face  from  her  shoulder,  an  ex- 
pression indescribable  passed  over  it— “ Home  ! 
she  repeated  the  word  once  more,  and  then  sank 
more  heavily  ufkm  her  husband’s  breast,  (<  Ellen, 


MV  birth-place. 


<53 


dearest  Ellen,  you  are  overcome;  he  bent  his  eyes 
in  alarm  on  her  face,  and  then  called  to  Allan  for 
water.  Allan  flew  for  it,  and  Ruthven  carried  her 
to  the  couch.  Laid  there,  not  many  moments 
passed,  before  one  deep-breathed  sigh  dismissed 
Mrs.  Ruthven  s spirit  to  a better  world  ; but  Ruth- 
ven  would  not  believe  the  form  over  which  he  hung 
was  lifeless.  The  surgeon  was  sent  for  ; he  came8 
a glance  was  sufficient  for  him  : he  knew  the 
strength  of  Ruthven’s  attachment  to  his  amiable 
wffie,  and  felt  for  him.  “ Major  Ruthven,”  he 
said,  this  is  an  hour  to  try  your  fortitude,  your 
courage  more  than  that  of  the  hottest  battle.” 

Alas  m such  an  hour,  fortitude,  courage,  often- 
times fail ; the  brave,  the  strong,  yield  in  the  day 
of  overwhelming  sorrow.  Major  Ruthven’s  an- 
swer was  that  of  a madman  ; and  the  surgeon 
pitying  his  grief,  but  seeing  he  could  be  of  no  use 

serve/  Wlthdrew>  and  him  to  indulge  it  unob- 

Kneeling  beside  the  corpse  of  her  whom  he  had 
loved  truest  best,-of  her  who  had  loved  him  so 
as  no  other  had  done,  Ruthven  passed  the  first 
Hours  of  his  deepest  sorrow,  either  uttering  the 
incoherent  ravings  of  grief,  or  gazing  on  the  death- 
cold  clay,  with  that  look  of  silent  stupifying  agony 
EeT6  ° feeli^  known  toJs/wffi 
dead  ■ h elves  over  the  form  of  the  beloved 

“ Ere  yet  decay’s  effacing  fingers 

Have  w ept  the  lines  where  beauty  lingers.” 

Allan  in  fears  for  his  father,  almost  forgot  his 

own  grief;  his  efforts  to  draw  him  from  the  corpse 
were  d findi„g  him  ^ »P“ 

never  for  he  LPPj.ed  to  a resource  he  believed 

never  failing : bending  his  head  on  his  clasped 


54  A VISIT  TO 

hands,  he  fervently,  but  lowly  ejaculated,  i(  Oh 
Thou,  who  being  made  in  all  things  like  unto  us, 
can  be  touched  by  a feeling  of  our  infirmities, 
look  down  on  my  father,  pour  comfort  into  his 
heart !” 

Ruthven  turned  to  his  son  ; he  thought  he  heard 
Ellen  speak,  he  drew  him  to  his  bosom,  and  wept 
with  calmness  ; then,  not  venturing  another  look 
at  the  couch,  he  let  Allan  lead  him  out  of  the 
room. 

He  desired  Allan  to  go  and  lie  down,  telling 
him  he  would  be  ill  for  want  of  sleep,  and  looking 
after  him  as  he  went  out,  said  to  himself,  “ Happy 
age,  when  no  sorrow  sits  deep  nor  long!”  But  he 
did  not  know  the  depth  of  a sorrow,  that  could  not 
vent  itself  in  childish  lamentations. 

Ruthven  continued  to  pace,  with  sadly  measur- 
ed steps,  his  small  apartment,  occasionally  stopping 
and  pressing  his  hand  upon  his  forehead,  as  if  to 
assure  himself  that  he  was  not  under  the  influence 
of  a frightful  dream,  to  be  certain  that  his  lovely, 
his  beloved  companion,  had  actually  slipped  from 
his  side,  and  left  him  to  continue  his  way  alone. 
To  man,  whose  heritage  is  wo,  one  would  think 
nothing  could  be  more  delightful  than  the  Scrip- 
ture character  of  God,  as  a present  help  in  time  of 
trouble  : pitiable,  indeed,  is  the  man  who,  in  the 
dark  hour  of  sorrow,  neither  feels  that  help,  nor 
knows  how  to  seek  it.  And  such  was  poor  Ruth- 
ven’s  case,  and  he  was  wretched  : — he  could  not 
raise  his  eye  from  this  sublunary  scene.;  could  not 
see  his  beloved  Elle$  in  her  new  habitation,  escaped 
from  sin  and  sorrow,  and  every  taint  of  mortal  cor- 
ruption, pure  and  free,  entered  into  the  joy  of  her 
Lord  ! He  could  not  look  forward  with  holy  joy 
and  humble  confidence  to  spending  an  eternity  of 
blessedness  together,  when  a few  more  rolling 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


55 


years  at  most,  should  see  them  united,  to  sing  for 
ever  the  praises  of  redeeming  grace. 

Ruthven  did  think  of  death  ; but  it  was  with 
that  rash  despair  which  could  desire  it,  as  a relief 
to  present  woes,  reckless  of  what  would  come  after. 
Before  the  lingering  night  had  worn  away,  he  stole 
back  to  the  chamber  of  death,  thinking  the  sense 
of  his  loneliness  would  not  be  so  great  when  he 
saw  even  the  corpse  of  his  Ellen.  All  was  still 
and  silent  here  ; the  windows  were  open,  and  the 
moon-beams,  palely  illuminating  the  room,  and 
falling  over  the  lifeless  body,  made  death  seem  al- 
most more  deathly.  There  lay  the  cold,  inanimate 
form  of  his  beloved  wife  ; it  seemed  but  as  yester- 
day, since  he  had  married  her  in  all  the  bloom  of 
youth  and  loveliness ; and  beside  her,  his  pale 
cheek  resting  on  her  ice-cold  hand,  knelt  poor 
Allan.  Ruthven  bent  over  them.  Oh  ! sin,  by 
thee  came  death  ! Hateful  and  abhorred  of  God  ! 
worker  of  all  evil  to  men,  why  not  equally  abhor- 
rent to  them  ! Allan  had  given  free  vent  to  his 
grief,  until,  tired  and  stupified  by  it  and  by  his  late 
wakeful  nights,  he  fell  asleep  : the  traces  of  recent 
tears — the  deep  impression  of  mental  suffering — - 
his  very  atittude  bespoke  the  feelings  of  his  mind. 
Ruthven’s  sorrow  seemed  alleviated  by  finding  a 
sharer  in  it : “ Poor  motherless  boy,”  he  said, 
u never,  never  can  your  loss  be  made  up !”  He 
raised  him  in  his  arms,  and  carried  him  gently  to 
bed ; then  threw  himself  on  his  own  to  rest  his 
tired  limbs  ; but  not  to  seek  repose. 

There  is  a sorrow,  which,  mingled  with  hope, 
yields,  by  degrees,  to  a softened  melancholy — 
retains  a cherished  remembrance  of  those  it 
mourns — finds  no  bitterness  in  recalling  their  im- 
age ; though,  when  the  loved  companions  of  our 
happiest  or  saddest  moments  are  missed,  the  sigh 


56 


A VISIT  TO 


of  natural  regret  will  arise — though  the  void  then- 
absence  causes  in  the  heart,  is  felt : “ They  are 
not  lost,  but  gone  before,”  can  change  even  that 
sigh  to  a smile — that  aching,  desolate  feeling,  to  a 
blissful  hope,  full  of  immortality ; for  that,  we  can 
look  beyond  the  things  that  are  seen,  and,  tracing 
their  path  to  mansions  in  the  skies,  hope,  by  the 
same  way,  to  become  partakers  in  their  blessed- 
ness. 

Far  different  the  sorrow  Ruthven  felt;  well 
might  it  be  denominated — one  without  hope ; its 
first  emotions  over,  his  might  have  passed  into  a 
sullen,  regardless  apathy,  a listless  indifference  to 
life,  and  its  concerns,  had  not  the  manner  of  his 
past  life,  the  sphere  in  which  he  moved,  produced 
other  effects,  to  banish  in  society  the  melancholy 
that  preyed  upon  his  spirits — in  the  hurry  of  occu- 
pation to  lose  reflection  : — these  soon  became  his 
aims ; his  commission  had  been  reserved  for  him, 
when  it  was  known  that  the  reason  for  his  resign- 
ing was  at  an  end,  so  that  he  remained  still  in  his 
profession  ; and  Allan  saw,  and  sighed,  to  see  his 
hopes  soon  wither  : he  had  hoped  his  father  would 
leave  the  army,  that  in  a quiet  retirement  he  might 
pursue  the  studies  he  loved,  and  lead  a life  often 
ideally  sketched.  His  fancy  had  drawn  a delight- 
ful picture  of  a happy  home  ; such  a home,  as  in 
fancy  only  he  had  known.  The  noise — the  tumult 
of  camps — the  tented  plain — the  strife  of  arms, 
had  no  charms  for  him  ; his  soul  was  attuned  to 
peace  : and  while  he  beheld  the  wide-wasting  mis- 
ery which  was  flung  around,  his  sick  heart  turned 
upward,  while  he  asked — Oh ! when  shall  men 
1 earn  war  no  more  ? 

Early  was  Allan  called  to  practise  his  mother’s 
lessons  ; the  laying  down  our  own  will  is,  perhaps, 
one  of  the  most  difficult  and  painful,  though  nec~ 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


57 


essary  lessons,  which  all  who  come  to  God  must  learn. 
From  his  earliest  youth,  Allan  was  taught  the  dan- 
ger of  setting  his  heart  on  aught  below  the  skies ; 
he,  too,  had  his  dreams  of  earthly  happiness : of  him 
might  be  said,  as  the  poet  said  of  himself,  that  he 
was  the 

“ Dupe  of  to-morrow— even  from  a child.” 

In  all  these  pictures  of  happiness,  the  scene  lay 
not  in  courts,  in  palaces,  or  in  castles  of  state — 
not  among  the  great  or  the  rich,  but  in  some  se- 
questered spot,  where,  far  from  strife  and  wrong 
he  should  spend  a tranquil,  and,  he  hoped,  a use- 
ful life— the  simple  pastor  of  a simple  flock. 

His  mother  favoured  the  desire,  and  wished  to 
send  him  home,  in  order  that  he  might  better 
prepare  to  realize  the  desire  of  his  heart : once  it 
seemed  almost  accomplished ; but  her  death,  and 
his  father’s  continuance  in  the  army,  again  threw 
it  at  a distance.  Knowing  herself  dying,  Mrs. 
Ruthven  could  not  wish  her  son  to  leave  his  father. 
Ruthven  wished  him  to  follow  his  own  profession ; 
and  though  Allan’s  nature  recoiled  from  it,  he 
could  not  think  of  leaving  him,  perhaps,  to  see 
him  no  more  for  ever. 

While  in  the  common  affairs  of  life,  Ruthven 
appeared  the  same  as  ever,  he  was,  nevertheless, 
changed  : the  air  of  happiness,  once  spread  over 
his  features,  was  gone;  though  he  smiled  or  laugh- 
ed with  others,  a sad,  withered  feeling,  lurked  in 

Jus  heart,  that  told  him  something  was  wanting 

that,  m the  midst  of  a crowd,  he  was  alone.  Oft- 
en,  in  his  lonely  rounds,  when  all  was  still— or 
the  stillness  broken  only  by  the  measured  steps  of 
the  sentry,  the  distant  voice  replying  to  the ‘same 
repeated  question  or  the  low  whistle,  with  which 
the  watchman  cheered  the  lone  hours  of  night, 


58  A VISIT  TO 

when  the  busy  sounds  of  day  were  hushed  to  si- 
lence— silence  deep  and  calm,  that  seemed  to  in- 
vite the  soul,  tired  with  the  vanities,  the  noise,  the 
hurry  of  life,  to  draw  in  its  scattered  powers,  to 
turn  within  itself,  and  meditate  on  the  great  for- 
gotten subject — its  own  existence,  its  end,  its  aim : 
then  would  he  pause  and  glance  round,  while 
feeling  gave  a deeper  shade  to  his  eye  ; an  oppres- 
sive sensation  to  his  breast ; then  would  he  think 
of  days  that  would  dawn  no  more  for  him  ; days  of 
departed  happiness,  till  his  full  soul  found  vent  in 
the  tear  that  suffused  his  eye,  and  ofttimes  rolled 
down  his  sun-browned  face.  After  such  seasons, 
Ruthven  would,  with  an  unwonted  fondness,  lean 
over  his  sleeping  boy.  “ Poor  boy/’  he  would  say, 
“ how  calm,  how  innocent  he  looks  : may  you,  at 
least,  be  spared  from  sorrow.  It  may  be  I deserve 
to  feel  it ; but  you,  pure,  holy,  given  to  your  God 
— Oh  ! you  must  escape ! She  taught  you  to  be  so,' 
perhaps,  even  now,  her  angel  spirit  watches  over 
you  ; you  shall  be  preserved.” 

Thus  would  Ruthven  feel;  and  thus,  though  des- 
titute himself  of  vital  religion,  though  he  knew 
nothing  of  that  which  influenced  the  conduct  of 
his  wife  and  son,  neither  the  advice  of  friends,  the 
sneer  of  some,  or  the  pity  of  all  who  knew  Allan 
Ruthven,  could  lead  him  to  try  to  turn  him  from 
treading  in  his  mother’s  steps.  And  Allan  held 
on  his  way,  a lonely  being  though  surrounded  by 
numbers,  unbiassed  by  the  society,  untinctured  by 
the  manners  of  those  with  whom  he  lived.  Some- 
times in  his  nightly  walks  with  his  father,  he 
would  seize  the  moment,  when  a passing  remem- 
brance softened  his  mind,  to  point  to  the  clear 
blue  heavens,  with  their  spangled  hosts  above  their 
heads,  to  speak  with  all  the  simplicity  of  boyhood, 
the  glowing  ardour  of  youth,  of  the  world  their 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


59 


glorious  curtain  veiled.  And  Ruthven  from  his 
raptured  gaze,  would  cast  his  eye  upon  tlfe  sweet 
countenance  that  looked  up  to  his  ; “ dear  enthu- 
siastic boy,”  he  would  think,  ‘Met  men  talk  as 
they  will,  your  sensibility,  affection,  warmth, 
purity  of  thought,  were  ill  exchanged  for  the  cold- 
ness, the  arts,  the  customs,  and  manners  seen 
among  them.” 

Thus  time  rolled  on,  and  Allan  still  remained 
among  the  scenes  his  soul  hated ; he  thought  it 
was  his  duty  to  stay,  and  he  hushed  every  repining 
thought,  yet  longed  for  the  time  when  he  could  see 
a chance  of  entering  on  the  life  he  loved.  “ I 
honour  those,”  he  would  think,  “ who  can  with  a 
Christi&n  spirit  serve  their  country  in  the  field  : — 
were  my  single  blood  required,  I trust,  I feel,  that 
its  last  drop  would  not  be  spared  ; but  to  see  whole 
ranks  of  my  fellow  men  cut  down,  to  trample  over 
the  dying  and  the  dead,  to  view  the  desolation,  the 
wide-wasting  miseries  of  war — Oh  ! my  heart  was 
not  made*  for  this  ! — Be  mine  the  station,  however 
ignoble,  however  lowly,  where  my  ear  cannot  be 
pained,  my  soul  grieved,  with  sights  and  sounds 
like  these.”  From  scenes  of  rapine  and  ruin — from 
where  the  aged  father  wept  his  lost  son — the  wife, 
her  husband,  Allan’s  oppressed  soul  rose  in  sup- 
plication, “ when,  Prince  of  Peace,  shall  men  bow 
to  thy  sceptre— own  thy  righteous  sway  ? hasten, 
Lord,  the  time.” 

Speaking  one  day  to  some  men  of  colour  in  the  * 
Regiment,  about  their  native  country,  the  situa- 
tion of  the  heathen  who  knew  not  God  struck 
him  forcibly  ; and  the  desire  to  bear  them  the  glad 
tidings  of  salvation,  took  possession  of  his  mind ; 
there  was  none  to  whom  he  durst  impart  it ; but 
still  he  cherished  the  idea. 

Few  could  know  Allan  Ruthven  well,  without 


GO  A VISIT  TO 

loving  him,  but  strangers  thought  him  a mere 
bashful  boy ; yet  there  was  something  in  his  looks 
that  interested  even  them,  and  prompted  the  ques- 
tion,—how  could  such  a youth  be  reared  in  such 
a school  1 — Gentle,  but  firm,  diffident  yet  sensible, 
simple  as  one  nursed  in  his  native  woods,  Allan 
seldom  heard  the  voice  of  praise,  more  rarely  of 
encouragement ; for  against  the  path  in  which  he 
trod,  all  he  knew  best  had  theij  faces  set ; but  he 
knew  a heavenly  Father’s  smile  shone  on  it ; and, 
hard  though  it  might  be  to  persevere,  in  that  light 
he  loved  to  walk. 

Though  the  army  could  not  perhaps  then  boast 
the  many  it  now  does,  who,  to  their  other  arms, 
are  not  ashamed  to  add  the  shield  of  faith,  the 
sword  of  the  Spirit ; putting  on  for  an  helmet,  the 
hope  of  salvation,  and  taking  the  full  panoply  of 
Christian  warfare  ; yet  in  every  age,  and  every 
station,  some  of  the  faithful  servants  of  the  Most 
High  are  to  be  found,  and  to  Allan’s  great  delight, 
one  of  these  joined  the  regiment  about  the  time  I 
speak  of : this  was  Captain  Macdonald  : he  had 
known  Ellen  from  her  childhood  ; it  was  while  on 
a visit  with  him,  that  Ruthven  had  first  seen  her  ; 
he  was  not  then,  what  he  now  was ; Macdonald’s 
circumstances  were  low  ; — sometime  after  Ellen’s 
marriage  with  Ruthven,  he  had  exchanged  into 
another  regiment,  and  on  obtaining  promotion, 
married  the  person  to  whom  he  had  been  long  at- 
tached. Her  life  was  not  even  as  long  as  Ellen’s ; 
she  left  him  soon  a widower,  with  one  little  girl. 
In  real  grief,  Macdonald  brought  his  child  to  his 
native  place,  left  her  to  the  care  of  his  fond  mother, 
and  then  felt  himself  indeed  alone : his  spirits 
were  broken,  and  he  could  find  no  enjoyment  in  the 
society  he  formerly  liked ; he  would  often  reflect 
on  the  uncertainty  of  all  cheated  good — the  vanity 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


til 


of  all  that  earth  can  yield,  and  feel  that  man,  as 
aspiring  after  happiness,  must  seek  it  elsewhere  : 
and  gradually  he  was  taught  where  to  seek  it ; and 
amidst  all  life’s  trials  and  conflicts,  he  now  found 
a peace,  a happiness,  its  storms  could  not  shake, 
its  pleasures  could  not  purchase.  Not  liking  the 
regiment  he  was  in  as  well  as  his  old  one,  he  ex- 
changed again,  and  felt  no  less  surprise  than 
pleasure,  on  becoming  acquainted  with  the  son  of 
his  old  friends.  A friendship,  whose  foundation 
could  not  be  sapped,  was  soon  formed  between 
them : a father  in  years  and  experience — he  was 
all  that  Allan  required ; his  heart  was  knit  to  him 
m ties  the  closest,  save  one,  by  all  that  bound  his 
heart  m earthly  chains ; he  flew  to  him  for  advice 
lor  comfort,  direction ; he  forgot  that  he  had  learned 
to  do  without  a teacher,  or  monitor ; and  Macdon- 
ald soon  supplied  a mother’s  place.  But  this  friend 
was  not  left  with  him  long ; he  had  found  him 
when  his  need  of  such  an  one  was  almost  over 
but  even  this  short  time  was  pleasant  to  him. 

In  the  spring,  the  army  again  took  the  field ; 
they  were  encamped  on  an  open  plain,  bordered  on 
°“e  &™e  a range  of  mountains,  round  whose 
side  Macdonald  would  sometimes  walk  with  his 
young  companion,  and  look  with  mild  affection  on 
ms  glowing  countenance,  while  he  spoke  of  things 
to  come,  and  uttered  feelings  and  sentiments  never 
breathed  to  another. 

One  evening  sitting  in  his  tent,  he  saw  Allan 
coming  towards  it ; words  were  not  needed  to  tell 
him  the  feelings  of  his  mind,  his  countenance 
always  declared  them;  he  saw  he  was  distressed 
and  Allan  soon  unburthened  his  mind  to  his  friend, 
Kuthven  had  been  speaking  to  him  respecting  his 
future  prospects  in  life ; he  seemed  so  inclined  to 
indulge  him  in  any  choice  of  a profession,  that  in 


62 


A VISIT  TO 


an  unguarded  moment  Allan  declared  his  wish  to 
become  a missionary  : Ruthven  looked  at  him  a 
moment  in  silence,  and  then  rising  to  go  away, 
said,  “ Allan,  in  yielding  to  your  mother’s  request, 
that  I should  never  interfere  with  you  in  religious 
matters,  I thought  I could  not  do  wrong  ; I fear  I 
have  been  mistaken ; to  what  length  your  present 
wild  ideas  may  grow,  I know  not,  or  to  what  ex- 
travagant conduct  they  may  lead  you ; but  this  I 
say,  that  from  the  moment  you  forget  you  have  a 
father,  I shall  study  to  forget  that  I ever  had  a 
son. 

Cut  to  the  heart  by  words  like  these,  the  first 
of  such  a kind  that  Ruthven  ever  used  to  his  son, 
poor  Allan  remained  motionless : his  first  act  was 
to  hasten  to  Macdonald  to  tell  him  all,  and  seek 
his  advice.  Macdonald  smiled  at  his  young  friend’s 
distress,  before  he  heard  his  father’s  words,  but 
then  he  was  serious.  “ Yes,  my  dear  Allan,  you 
have  been  wrong ; your  father  ought  to  be  your 
first  object;  remember  how  his  interests  pressed 
on  your  mother’s  heart,  and  then  there  is,  your  na- 
tive land : for  my  part,  I have  no  wish  to  see  you 
a missionary  ; much  remains  to  be  done  therfe,  and 
as  a minister  at  home,  you  may  be  happy  and 
useful.” 

Allan  sighed ; “ I was  wrong,  I rashly  risked 
giving  pain  to  my  father ; nay,  for  the  first  time  I 
remember  incurring  his  displeasure,  when  perhaps, 
was  permission  given  me,  I might  not,  could  not 
accept  of  it : but  I will  go  and  tell  him  I see  my 
error,  and  will  endeavour  to  remove  the  idea  that 
caused  it.” 

Some  time  afterwards  the  Colonel  of  Ruthven’s 
regiment  being  shot  while  reviewing  some  out- 
posts, he  got  promotion ; but  did  not  act  long  in 
his  new  capacity ; for  in  an  ensuing  engagement. 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


G3 


while  his  arm  was  extended  cheering  his  men  to 
the  charge,  it  was  carried  off  by  a cannon  shot, 
which  passing  on,  dashed  lifeless  to  the  ground 
the  officer  who  stood  next.  Ruthven  dropped  at 
the  moment,  and  a brother  officer  coming  up, 
tendered  his  assistance.  “ No,  no,”  he  cried, 
“ my  life  is  now  useless,  take  my  place ; let  it  not 

be  said  the — regiment  failed  in  their  duty  ;” 

then  raising  his  sword  in  his  left  hand,  he  cried, 
“ forward,  forward !”  Ah,  how  often  has  a simi- 
lar cry  sounded  from  lips  fast  closing  in  death — 
how  often  has  a similar  contempt  of  death  been 
shown  by  those  who  stood  on  the  very  brink  of  a 
world,  to  them  shadowy,  dark,  uncertain  ; by  them, 
who,  if  they  thought  at  all  of  the  life  to  come, 
would  feel  no  solid,  well-grounded  hope  of  enter- 
ing on  its  joys. 

The  same  day  that  dismissed  Ruthven  from  the 
service  of  his  country,  dismissed  Macdonald  to  a 
world  of  peace,  of  rest,  and  joy : he  received  a 
musket  ball  in  his  side  in  the  early  part  of  the  en- 
gagement, and  was  immediately  carried  from  the 
field  ; but  his  wound  was  beyond  the  surgeon’s  art. 
Allan  soon  stood  beside  him,  and  received  his  last 
bequests, — “ Dear  Allan,  farewell,  I go  to  a bet- 
ter world,  perhaps  you  will  see  my  mother  and  my 
child.” — Here  a father’s  feelings  overpowered  him 
— Allan’s  heart  was  full  to  bursting.  “ Tell  them, 
I hope  to  see  them  in  glory — tell  them,  if  they 
would  see  life  they  must  walk  by  faith  in  the  Son 
of  God — tell  them , in  my  last  moments  He  was'  all 
my  confidence,  my  hope,  my  trust — farewell,  dear 
Allan,  trust  in  the  Lord.” 

Macdonald  grasped  his  hand  tighter,  and  when 
the  convulsive  spasm  passed  from  his  face,  that 
grasp  was  loosened,  and  his  soul  was  gone. 

Allan  thought  the  cup  was  full,  when  he  sawT 


04 


A VISIT  TO 


the  friend  of  his  heart  stretched  dead  before  him  ■ 
but  the  next  moment  he  was  called  to  attend  on 
his  wounded  father  ! 

“Thou  art  gracious  still,  Father  of  mercies,” 
he  said,  when  he  sat  through  the  night  beside  his 
couch ; “ in  the  midst  of  judgment  thou  remem- 
berest  mercy;  did  I dare  to  think  thy  dealings 
hard ; Oh ! if  my  father’s  life  is  spared,  I surely 
never  can  repine  !”  A long  illness  caused  by  his 
wound  completed  the  overthrow  of  Ruthven’s 
health ; and  as  soon  as  a partial  recovery  would 
permit,  he  returned  to  his  native  land,  changed  in 
form,  in  manner,  and  in  feeling. 

Ellen’s  aged  father,  the  sole  survivor  of  his 
family,  still  lived  at  the  lodge  I spoke  of;  there 
the  first  visit  of  Ruthven  and  his  son  were  paid. 
Even  in  foreign  lands,  when  memory  recalled  the 
scenes  he  now  beheld,  a tear  would  sometimes 
steal  into  the  soldier’s  eye,  a pang  of  misery  would 
shoot  across  his  breast,  when  he  thought  that  never 
again  for  him  could  they  have  the  same  charms. 
On  first  beholding  them,  he  turned  away  sickened 
at  their  sight ; but  first  emotions  over,  he  took  a 
melancholy  pleasure  in  reviewing  scenes  endeared 
to  him,  as  those  where  the  happiest  days  of  his 
life  had  been  spent.  The  conversation  of  his 
father-in-law  too,  though  painful  at  first,  became 
agreeable  ; he  could  talk  to  him  of  other  days,  of 
all  that  since  befel  him ; and  the  old  man,  left 
childless  in  his  latter  years,  thought  Ruthven' and 
his  son  sent  back  to  cheer  and  bless  him.  Ruth- 
ven had  no  very  near  relatives  alive,  nor  was  there 
any  place  where  he  thought  he  could  be  happier 
than  in  our  peaceful  glen  ; and  to  the  great  delight 
of  Mr.  Falconer  and  Allan,  he  took  up  his  resi- 
dence in  it 

Allan’s  desire  was  now  at  last  granted;  he  was 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE, 


65 

in  the  spot  imagination  had  often  presented,  able 
to  follow  the  pursuits  and  studies  he  loved,  and 
looked  forward  to  entering  on  the  life  to  which  he 
had  always  aspired.  At  the  back  of  the  Lodge,  you 
know  the  hills  begin  to  rise  that  enclose  the  valley 
you  live  in  ; the  trees  thin  by  degrees  on  the  as- 
cent of  the  lowest,  giving  place  to  the  streaming 
laburnum,  the  yellow  broom,  and  white  and  colour- 
ed lilac.  A small  mountain  stream  pouring  from 
the  top,  falling  from  one  little  precipice  to  another, 
hurrying  on  its  impetuous  tiny  course,  min- 
gles its  tributary  waters  with  the  fine  un- 
ruffled river,  that  rolls  peacefully  through  the 
green  amphiteatre  below.  On  this  ascent,  over- 
looking larger  dwellings,  you  may  have  seen  a 
small  but  beautiful  cottage — it  was  Macdonald’s 
his  own  romantic  dwelling,  to  which  his  heart  had’ 
turned  with  yearnings  such  as  the  lonely  exile  feels, 
his  own  beloved  home,  which  he  was  never  to  see 
again.  Allan  had  not  forgotten  his  friend ; he 
hastened  to  bear  to  his  mother  and  child  his  part- 
ing messages ; and  anxiously  hoping  to  find  in  them 
friends  who  would  in  some  degree  compensate  for 
his  loss,  with  a palpitating  heart  he  knocked  at 
the  cottage  door : it  was  opened  by  a rosy  little 
girl,  who  invited  him  in — Mrs.  Macdonald  was 
knitting  in  the  window : that  he  was  the  son  of 
Lllen  Falconer  was  enough  to  secure  his  welcome 
that  he  had  been  the  bosom  friend  of  her  idoli- 
zed,  deeply  regretted  son,  ensured  him  her  warm- 
est affection.  x 

Allan  had  brought  her  two  miniatures  of  Mac- 
donald and  his  wife  which  he  had  given  him  ; she 

looked  at  them  till  tears  dimmed  her  sight “just 

so  they  looked  when  they  came  to  me  after  their 
marriage,  beloved  Ethelind,  dearest,  dearest  Nor- 
man!” She  pressed  them  to  her  lips  again,  “ Ethie, 


GG  ' A VISIT  TO 

my  child,  come  here.”  Ethie  threw  down  her 
work  and  ran  to  her— Mrs.  Macdonald  looked 
from  her  happy  blooming  countenance  to  that  of 
her  father’s — “ are  they  not  like?”  “ The  picture 
is  strikingly  like.”  “ Then  Ethie  is  not  like  what 
her  father  was  when  you  knew  him.”  “ Yes,  her 
features  are ; but  the  expression  of  Captain  Mac- 
donald’s face  must  have  altered  after  this  likeness 
was  taken — his  was  serene,  mild,  at  times  cheerful, 
but  not  so  animated,  so  lively  as  this.”  “ Nor  as 
Ethie’s,  I suppose  ? Ah ! my  poor  son,  he  met 
enough  to  sadden  the  gayest  heart,  to  shade  the 
most  lively  face.”  Ethie  had  moved  behind  her 
grandmother’s  chair,  and  asked,  “ is  that  papa?” 
— “ Yes,  my  love.”  “ Ah!  let  me  see  him.”  She 
took  the  picture  and  kissed  it  again  and  again. 
“ Dearest  papa,  what  would  I have  given  to  have 
seen  him,  to  have  been  with  him  ; but  I shall 
never  see  him  again,  never  until  I meet  him  in 
heaven.”  Allan  regarded  her  with  double  interest 
while  she  bent  her  face,  wet  with  tears,  on  her 
father’s  picture.  Though  rather  disappointed  in 
his  hopes  respecting  the  family  of  his  friend,  Allan 
soon  became  their  intimate  companion.  The 
cottage  was  his  other  home  ; thither  he  went  for 
relaxation  after  studying,  and  for  society  when 
lonely  : Ethie  was  the  solace  of  his  leisure  hours, 
and  he  was  her  preceptqr,  her  counsellor,  her 
friend.  But  Ethie’s  playful  manners  did  not  always 
suit  Allan  ; he  felt  at  times  to  want  another  friend, 
and  he  soon  found  one  in  Edmund  Ashley.  Ash- 
ley was  about  two  years  older,  and  well  formed  to 
win  the  heart  of  such  a lad  as  Allan  Ruthven  ; but 
there  was  one  thing  wanting ; on  other  subjects 
they  seemed  to  have  one  feeling,  but  on  the  mo- 
mentous one,  religion,  they  disagreed. 

There  is  no  truth  more  universally  Rejected. 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


67 


because  none  more  humbling  to  the  pride  of  man 
than  the  Scriptural  one,  that  there  is  none  good' 
no,  not;  one.”  Truly  I have  thought  some- 
times, no  marvel  that  it  should  be  so,  when  I 
have  seen  such  amiable  dispositions,  lovely  virtues 
and  noble  principles,  seemingly  inherited  from 
nature.  Ashley,  Allan  Ruthven’s  new  friend,  was 
an  instance  of  this — yet  Ashley  owned  the  necessity 
and  admired  the  beauty  of  religion,  but  then  he 
thought  himself  religious ; he  had  sketched  out  one 
for  himself,  that  Allan  would  tell  him  was  not 
drawn  from  the  Scripture ; but  though  Ashley  ad- 
mired and  loved  the  character  of  his  young  friend 
there  were  parts  of  it  he  did  not  understand  and* 
these  he  wished  to  observe  as  little  as  possible  : 
their  pursuits,  their  studies,  became  the  same  • in 
this  one  thing  alone  there  seemed  an  answering 
chord  wanting  in  Ashley’s  heart.  The  two  friends 
went  to  college  together  ; here  I first  became  ac- 
quainted with  Allan,  and  on  our  return  was  ad- 
mitted a favoured  guest  to  the  society  of  the  lodge 
and  the  cottage.  Days  of  early  happiness,  how 
truly  does  memory  recal  you  ! Methinks  I am 
seated  again  m Ruthven’s  favourite  parlour,  whose 
windows,  opening  on  a garden  blooming  with  flow- 
ers that  sent  in  their  delicious  odour,  partially  ad- 
mitted the  evening  sunbeams  through  their  screen 
ot  jasmine,  rose,  and  graceful  eglantine ; there  I 
can  see  a group  these  eyes  shall  never  rest  on 
more,  except  in  memory’s  glass.  The  aged  Falco- 
ner  the  venerable  Mrs.  Macdonald,  the  disabled 
soldier,  looking  back  on  the  years  that  are  gone 
sigh  tor  many  a lost  companion,  then  smile  with 
pure  affection  on  their  youthful  representatives 
^itt,  W!S*u they  niay  mherit  their  parent’s  virtues 
h61r  Pa/ent’s  Srlefs'  And  ^ one  of  that 
y outhful  party,  if  aught  of  the  character  of  future 
life  could  be  gathered  from  the  expression  of  a 


68 


A VISIT  TO 


countenance,  the  wish  appeared  likely  to  be  grant- 
ed : the  laughing  blue  eyes  and  glowing  cheek  of 
Ethie  Macdonald  seemed  to  say  that  sorrow  was 
unknown  to  her  ; her  every  movement  spoke  the 
lightness  of  a heart  unbowed  by  its  iron  hand- — 
her  very  step  announced  the  approach  of  one  as 
yet  a stranger  to  the  thousand  ills  that  flesh  is 
heir  to  ; and  looking  on  her  innocent,  happy  face, 
one  felt  inclined  to  believe,  she  must  escape  the 
sad  inheritance  of  man. 

In  those  evenings  the  conversation,  though  live- 
ly, was  often  blended  with  what  was  serious  : from 
his  mother,  Allan  had  learned  the  art  of  sweetly 
turning  whatever  might  be  said  to  profit,  without 
the  appearance  of  forcing  religion  into  conversa- 
tion, or  casting  a shade  over  the  innocent  mirth  of 
his  young  companions.  Mrs.  Macdonald,  Allan, 
and  myself,  would  sometimes  converse  more  deeply 
on  religious  subjects,  and  Ethie  would  come  and 
listen  to  us ; and  when  Allan,  anxious  that  Mac- 
donald’s desires  for  her  should  be  granted,  would 
ask  her  opinion  on  what  was  said,  she  would  agree 
with  him,  would  yield  her  ready  assent  to  the 
truths  he  spoke ; but  rarely  give  her  opinion,  or 
express  her  own  feelings. 

Ruthven’s  health,  though  much  broken,  was  so 
far  re-established  by  the  life  he  now  led,  as  to 
allow  him  to  extend  his  walks  with  Allan  to  some 
length.  Along  the  sea-shore  was  his  favourite 
ramble  ; there  he  would  look  over  the  blue  waters, 
recal  the  scenes  that  passed  in  foreign  lands,  and 
think  of  her  whose  remains  lay  beyond  them. 

“ Yet  not  lost,  my  father,53  Allan  would  say  at 
such  times  ; “ from  the  four  winds  of  heaven  shall 
the  redeemed  of  the  Lord  be  gathered.53  “ Ah  ! 
Allan,  you  find  in  religion  a remedy  for  every 
grief.33  Allan  sighed/4  at  least  I hope  I find  con- 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


69 


solation  ; the  heart  that  feels  and  mourns  must  do 
so,  though  religion  sheds  its  balmy  influence  there  ; 
but  it  is  a quiet,  resigned  sorrrovv,  that  dares  not 
repine.” 

“ Tell  me,  Allan,  were  your  dearest  hope  cut  off, 
your  fondest  expectations  blasted,  your  choicest 
blessings  taken  away,  would  you  feel  as  you  now 
describe  ?” 

’ Allan  s thoughts  flew  away  for  a moment  to 
other  scenes,  former  trials  and  crosses,  above  all 
the  tented  plain,  his  disappointed  hope,  his  friend 
Macdonald  ; he  sighed  again  and  said,  “ I trust, 

through  all  sufficient  grace,  I should.” Ruth- 

ven  did  not  understand  these  things,  nor  did  he 
seek  to  do  so ; he  took  his  son’s  arm  and  turned 
homeward.  Allan  left  him  at  the  door,  his  ques- 
tion had  given  rise  to  a multitude  of  thoughts,  he 
wished  to  examine  his  heart,  to  know  if  he  was 
right  in  thinking  he  could  give  the  required  proof: 
he  retraced  his  steps,  and  rambled  slowly  along 
the  sounding  shore  : but  he  was  not  long  left  to 
the  solitude  he  wished,  a step  behind  started  him. 
“ Meditating,  Allan  ?”  “ Yes,  Ashley.”  “ And 

.the  subject?”  “Myself.”  “A  pleasing  one, 
doubtless  ?”  “ No,  Ashley,  after  such  meditation, 

I think  it  is  out  of  myself  I must  look  for  pleasure  , 
within  I find  cause  for  self-abasement  alone  ” 
“ Forgive  me,  Allan,  but  I have  often  thought  if  it 
were  not  for  some  peculiar  sentiments,  your  mind 
would  be  as  faultless,  as  perfect,  as  your  character; 
but  these  strange  ideas,  so  derogatory  to  the  hu- 
man character,  so  unworthy  of  a mind  like  your’s.” 
‘‘Yet  so  conformable  to  truth,  so  consistent  with 
the  declaration  of  God  himself — tell  me,  Ashley 
when  you  look  over  that  wide  spread  ocean,  on 
tiiat  expanded  firmament,  that  fair  orb  rising  in 
loveliness,  as  it  were  from  a watery  bed,  that  splen- 
ic* 


70 


A VISIT  TO 


did  train  of  newly  risen  stars,  over  all  nature,  in 
short,  earth,  seas  skies, — does  not  the  sense  of 
the  majesty,  the  inexpressible  greatness  of  their 
Creator,  fill  you  with  a sensation  overwhelming  and 
awful  “ It  does,  Allan,  and  some  years  back 
when  quite  a boy,  I have  stood  here  and  seen  the 
storm  gathering  in  blackness  round  that  mountain’s 
brow,  when  the  sea,  tinged  with  the  black  reflec- 
tion of  the  clouds,  has  been  tossing  its  foaming 
waves,  and  the  wind  hoarsely  murmuring  among 
these  rocks  ; then  I felt  all  this,  and  more  than  this ; 
then  your  opinions  might  have  suited  the  frame  of 
my  mind  ; for  I have  thought,  what  mortal  could 
stand  before  his  God  when  he  sat  in  the  terrors  of 
his  judgment ; I have  felt — felt  more  than  I could 
now  express.” 

« You  have  felt,  in  short,  that  more  than  his 
own  righteousness  is  requisite  to  enable  any  man 
to  stand  before  his  God  untremblingly — and  why 
not  think  so  now  1”  “ Because  I have  now  form- 

ed better  ideas  of  myself  and  of  my  Maker ; I 
could  not  now  stoop  my  mind,  I acknowledge,  to 
the  self-debasing  doctrines  you  hold.”  “ Oh  pride, 
pride!”  cried  Allan,  “dear  Ashley,  would  you 
could  see  these  things  as  I do  ; trust  me,  the  hour 
may  come,  when  in  those  very  self-abasing  doc- 
trines of  justification  through  faith,  salvation 
through  Christ,  you  can  only  find  comfort  and 
peace.” 

Their  conversation  had  led  them  on  insensibly 
round  the  head  land  and  down  the  slope  towards 
Macdonald’s  cottage  ; the  sound  of  voices  among 
the  rocks  beneath  caught  their  attention  ; Allan 
approached  the  edge,  and  looking  down,  called 
his  friends  to  do  the  same.  “ How  picturesque 
they  look  !”  Ashley  smiled.  Two  figures  were 
standing  on  a low  piece  of  rock  that  jutted  into 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


71 


the  water , the  black  garb  and  venerable  form  of 
the  one  was  contrasted  with  the  white  dress  and 
light  youthful  figure  of  the  other.  Mrs.  Macdon- 
ald’s arm  rested  on  the  shoulder  of  her  grandchild 
who,  without  her  bonnet,  her  fair  hair  moving  in 
the  sea  breeze,  was  speaking  to  her  with  a liveli- 
ness that  seemed  as  if  she  would  dissipate  the 
melancholy  feelings  that  cast  a shade  over  her 
face. 

While  the  two  gentlemen  were  making  their 
way  to  them  over  the  rocks,  they  turned  to  leave 
their  place ; but  Mrs.  Macdonald,  whom  age  and 
infirmities  rendered  inactive,  found  more  difficulty 
in  getting  off  the  place  where  she  stood  than  she 
had  in  ascending  : Ethie’s  assistance  was  not  suf- 
ficient ; but  Ashley  seeing  their  embarrassment, 
wound  his  arm  round  a point  of  the  rock  on  which 
he  was  standing,  and  gaining  thus  another  resting 
place,  sprang  from  that  upon  the  shore,  and  ran  to 
their  relief.  Ethie  saw  his  prompt  good  nature, 
and  her  looks  and  words  expressed  as  much  thanks 
and  gratitude  as  if  he  had  saved  the  life  dearest  to 
her.  Allan  followed,  and  as  Ethie  supported  her 
grandmother  s unsteady  steps  along  the  gravelly 
beach,  ran  to  ask  her  to  take  a stronger,  though  he 
added  smiling,  “ a less  beloved  arm.”  “ Less 
dear  than  Ethie’s  only,  Allan,”  said  Mrs.  Macdon- 
ald, as  she  took  it,  “ you  know  I am  your  second 
mother.”  Allan  sighed  involuntarily  as  he  pressed 
her  hand,  and  thought  earth  could  contain  no 
mother  for  him,  like  her  he  had  lost.  This  speech 
led  to  conversation  interesting  to  both,  and  while 
tney  spoke,  Ethie  walked  by  their  side,  seemincly 
listening  with  pleasure  to  what  Allan  said.  Though 
accustomed  to  see  her  attention  engaged  by  his 
conversation,  yet,  on  the  j®esent  occasion,  Allan 
could  not  forbear  wondering,  that  after  the  expres- 


A VISIT  TO 


sion  of  so  much  obligation  to  Ashley,  she  should 
appear  to  forget  that  he  was  by,  and  let  him  walk 
on  in  silence,  while  she  gave  to  the  conversation 
that  was  passing,  as  deep  an  attention  as  ever  he 
had  seen  excited  by  the  most  important  subject. 
This  and  similar  little  occurrences,  might  have 
shown  Allan  something  of  a mind  too  light  to  receive 
lasting  impressions ; but  one  who  did  not  view 
Macdonald’s  daughter  with  his  prejudiced  eye, 
could  have  discerned  in  her  a fickleness  of  mind, 
an  indecision  of  character,  which  rendered  her 
uncertain  and  liable  to  be  led  by  the  society  into 
which  she  was  thrown.  But  Allan  did  view  her 
with  a prejudiced  eye  ; he  had  been  prepared  to 
find  her  worthy  of  her  excellent  father  ; he  was 
at  first  disappointed,  but  her  innocent,  engaging 
manner,  won  his  youthful  heart ; he  was  surprised 
that  he  could  have  expected  to  meet  so  much  in 
one  so  young  : as  she  grew  up,  he  thought  her 
mind  had  been  strengthened  and  expanded  by  his 
instructions,  and  the  thought  was  not  a little  pleas- 
ing. On  religion,  he  made  no  doubt  they  had  the 
same  views,  mnd  as  she  advanced  in  years  he 
thought  she  would  lose  a certain  giddiness  of  man- 
ners and  character,  which,  when  he  reflected  on 
his  mother,  gave  him  Uneasiness.  Ethie  had  long 
been  marked  out  as  his  future  wife  ; it  seemed 
tacitly  but  generally  understood,  and  Allan’s  chief 
foible  was  to  be  blind  to  the  faults  of  those  he 
loved. 

When  they  reached  the  cottage,  Ethie  holding 
up  a piece  of  pencilled  paper,  asked,  “ Have  I the 
writer’s  permission  to  read  some  lines  written  on 
a lovely  Saturday’s  evening,  and  left  on  the  crags 
for  whoever  chose  to  pick  them  up  ?” 

u You  have  my  #eave  to  do  what  you  please 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE.  73 

with  them  : Ethie,  you  know  my  poetry  is  never 
worth  much.” 

“ You  have  owned  yourself  the  writer  of  these, 
however,  so  I will  read  them,”  and  she  began 
accordingly  : 

How  lovely  the  sun  beams  fade  o’er  the  red  west, 

Earth’s  fairest  beauties  adorning; 

They  seem,  as  they  fall,  the  purest  and  best, 

To  promise  a glorious  morning. 

Yes,  that  awakening  light  wili  bring 
A ’blessed,  holy  morrow. 

Whose  hoped  return  can  comfort  fling 
O’er  six  days'  toil  and  sorrow. 

j Nature  now  seems  hushed  to  peace, 

Day’s  busy  tumult  past, 

Would  that  all  mental  strife  might  cease, 

And  all  be  peace  at  last. 

The  ocean  wave  at  rest  is  laid, 

Calm  ’neath  the  red  beam  flowing  ; 

Thus  be  my  mind  on  Jesus  staid, 

Thus  with  his  love  be  glowing. 

The  shades  of  night  each  lovely  scene 
In  darkness  now  are  veiling, 

Thus  error’s  mist  the  mind  can  screen 
From  truths  of  God’s  revealing. 

To-morrow  will  disperse  the  gloom, 

Its  brilliant  sun  appearing, 

Shall  show  again  all  Nature’s  bloom 
Each  eye,  each  bosom  cheering. 

Oh  may  a sun  more  purely  bright, 

In  glory  then  uprising, 

Scatter  the  gloom  of  mental  night, 

A darkened  world  surprising. 

Lord,  on  thine  own  most  holy  day. 

Let  thine  own  glory  shine  ; 

Send  to  each  darken’d  mind  a ray, 

And  show  us  things  divine. 


74 


A VISIT  TO 


One  evening  X called  at  the  Lodge,  as  usual,  to 
walk  with  Allan  : Ruthven,  who  was  only  recov- 
ering from  one  of  those  severe  attacks  of  illness  to 
which  he  was  subject,  was  sitting  in  the  window, 
and  told  me  he  had  just  gone  out.  “ I saw  him/’ 
he  said,  “with  a book  in  his  hand,  going  along  the 
low  walk  by  the  river,  towards  Nairn  Point ; you 
will  find  him,  X dare  say,  in  that  direction,  in  one 
of  his  romancing  meditating  moods/5 

“You  think " Allan  then  romantic?55  “ No— 
though  I used  the  term,  X cannot  say  I do,  a little 
enthusiastic,  perhaps  ; but  he  is  an  excellent  lad — - 
he  is  all  to  me.55 

After  joining  in  the  praises  of  my  friend,  1 
parted  with  Ruthven,  hoping  he  would  soon  be 
able  to  join  us  in  our  walks.  “ I hope  so  too,5' 
said  he,  “ for  I am  tired  of  this  confinement,  but  I 
suppose  I must  often  endure  it.  Well,  it  is  the  will 
of  God  that  I should  suffer.55  As  he  said  this,  he 
drew  his  head  up  by  the  window  frame,  and,  for 
the  first  time,  I thought  his  upturned  countenance 
resembled  Allan's. 

My  search  for  him  was  for  some  time  unsuc- 
cessful; at  last,  reaching  the  top  of  Nairn  Xfoint,  I 
saw  him  a little  below,  stretched  on  its  side  that 
fronted  the  sea  : one  hand ; supported  his  head, 
the  other  held  a book,  but  his  eyes  were  over  the 
waves  there  was  an  intenseness  in  his  expression, 
while  a light  seemed  to  play  round  his  brow.  I 
sat  down  by  him  before  he  perceived  me ; he  then 
looked  at  me,  as  if  calling  in  his  thoughts  for  a 
moment  before  he  spoke  ; putting  his  finger  on  the 
book  he  held,  which  was  an  origal  copy  of  the 
prophecies,  he  said,  “ I have  been  thinking,  my 
friend,  of  the  ‘ isles  that  sit  in  darkness,5  of  the 
villages  that  ICedar  doth  inhabit,5  of  the  time  when 
the  i inhabitants  of  the  rock  shall  sing  a new  song 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


4l» 


Unto  the  Lord/  when  they  shall  ‘ declare  his  nraise 
Irom  the  Islands.’  ” The  bent  of  my  friend’s 
mind  now,  for  the  first  time,  struck  me ; I con- 
nected this  with  other  things,  and  did  not  imme- 
diately answer  : he  continued— “ I was  thinking 
how  delightful,  how  honourable,  to  go,  trusting  in 
the  strength  of  the  Lord,  relying  on  his  promises 

to  declare  unto  the  Gentiles  things  they  know 
not— to  preach  Christ  among  the  heathen.” 

In  short,  Allan,  you  were  wishing  to  go  vour- 
se.f  a messenger  of  glad  tidings  to  the  people  sit- 
ting in  darkness.”  r F 

“ It  was  long  the  latent  wish  of  my  heart,  but  it 
has  long  been  repressed,  indeed  latterly  resigned  • 
each  have  their  appointed  sphere  in  life — the  mis- 
sionary path  does  not  seem  to  be  mine ; why  should 
1 wish  to  make  it  so.” 

“ And  could  you  then  contentedly  give  up  your 
home— your  native  land  ?”  1 r 

“Ah!  my  friend,  there  is  the  thought  that 
sometimes  pains  me;  once  I was  ready— once  I 
would  have  counted  it  all  joy,  but  latterly  I believe 
earthly  ties  are  stronger;  perhaps,  now,  were  the 
wish  granted,  I should  feel  loth  to  burst  these 

b ?i,ni!he  .missl0nalt  s,wuld  not  be  tied  to  earth 
—the  Christian,  neither,  should  not.”  Allan  seem- 

^l!:r,VerV°  1US  tho.uShts>  as  if  to  himself;  he 
resumed  his  former  attitude,  thus  pursuing  the 

' ■ lea!e  ah— friends,  and  home,  and  coun- 

ty the  privileges  of  Christian  intercourse  and 
Christian  worship— the  endearments  of  social  life  • 
but  leave  them  for  Christ— leave  them  to  bear  his 
our^God  f,he  Gentl,es~ t0  sPread  the  knowledge  of 
“ Well  my  friend,  I think  I was  right;  you 

iToTom'*1^  t0 -be  a “ 1 admire  Ld 

lonmir  tne  missionary,  but,  strange  to  say  I do 


76 


A VISIT  TO 


not  know  my  own  mind  so  well  upon  this  subject 
as  I did  lome  few  years  since;  I fear  a call  to  missions 
would  now  involve  greater  sacrifices  than  it  would 
then  : other  views,  other  habits*  or  it  may  be,  as  I 
would  fain  hope,  that  feeling  it  not  my  duty,  I have 
endeavoured  to  turn  my  mind  from  an  idea,  I was 
perhaps  wrong  in  long  secretly  and  fondly  cherish- 
ing.” Saying  this,  he  rose,  and  we  walked  on, 
still  holding  ‘ converse  sweet/  On  our  way,  Ash- 
ley, and  a friend  who  lately  came  to  see  him,  met 
us.  Allan  seemed  to  like  this  young  man,  and 
soon  grew  intimate  with  him ; a liberal  education 
and  a knowledge  of  the  world  rendered  his  con- 
versation pleasing ; his  manner  and  appearance 
were  agreeable,  he  seemed  lively,  frank,  sensible, 
and  sincere  ; he  had  lately  been  on  the  continent, 
and  his  remarks  on  the  state  of  religion  there,  a 
subject  on  which  Allan  was  always  ready  to  inquire, 
and  glad  to  hear,  were  judicious  and  sensible. 

Thus  the  past,  the  present,  and  future,  alter- 
nately furnishing  topics  of  discourse,  and  calling 
forth  the  rich  stores  of  the  minds  of  my  young 
friends,  I walked,  a well  pleased  listener,  by  their 
side.  What  blinded  mortals  are  we  ! The  future 
■ — the  unknown  future* — seems  fair  and  promising; 
the  present  is  despised,  the  past  regretted  ! I was 
even  then  panting  for  the  future,  looking  with  im- 
patience to  the  time  when  I should  enter  on  a 
busy  bustling  scene,  and  realize  all  hope’s  fairest 
visions.  Ah ! what  would  I now  give  to  recall 
those  days  of  purer  happiness,  than,  with  few  ex- 
ceptions, I have  since  known — to  enjoy  again  the 
endearing  commerce  of  early  friendship,  then  val- 
ued, it  is  true,  but  held  secondary  in  the  list  of 
earthly  good.  But  thus  would  my  repining  heart 
ever  be  leading  me  astray : forgive.  Thou  who 
seest  my  error ; like  Allan,  like  his  pious  mother, 


3IY  BIRTH-PLACE,  - 

may  I learn  submission  ; since  thou  thyself  hast 
been  my  friend,  hast  never  left  nor  forsaken  me  in 
all  my  wanderings  from  thee,  shall  I murmui 
though  all  others  be  taken  away  ? 

Following  the  windings  of  the  river,  we  walked 
on  until  we  came  in  front  of  the  old  church  I have 
mentioned  ; this  was  a favourite  haunt  of  Allan’s  * 
the  fine  skirting  of  beech  and  fir  suddenly  break- 
mg  off,  presented  a lovely  landscape,  terminated  in 
trout  by  an  arm  of  the  sea  running  up  its  rocky 
shore.  There  the  light  fishing  boat,  bounding  on 
its  trackless  path — the  more  stately  merchantman 
that  sometimes  bore  in  sight,  bringing,  it  might 
be,  goods  from  afar— or  even  the  fishermen  re- 
turning from  their  toil,  and  disposing  0f  their 
gams,  could  furnish  matter  for  reflectioiTto  a mind 
like  his. 


Gardiner,  for  so  shall  1 call  Ashley's  friend 
stopped  to  admire  the  fine  prospect ; Allan’s  arm 
was  raised  pointing  out  some  favourite  views  when 
another  object  attracted  his  attention;  it  waa 
Ftme  coming  down  the  height  beside  us  with  a 
female  companion  : they  drew  pretty  near  without 
perceiving  our  party ; when  they  did,  they  stopped 
a moment,  and  then  with  a nod  and  smile  passed 
on  in  another  direction.  “Who  is  that?”  asked 

Whfeyer  " ShC  iS  5 M*SS  Macdonald>”  replied 

As  I was  not  so  near  a3  Allan,  I did  not  hear 
what  Crammer  said  in  answer,  but  I saw  Allan 
turn  a quick  glance  to  the  speaker,  and  then 
strain  his  eye  in  the  direction  Ethie  had  crone  : he 
saw  hey  white  gown  flutter  in  the  breeze  as  she 
turned  the  point,  and  then  we  walked  on. 

But  I intended  merely  to  give  you  the  outlines 
ofmy  friends  life,  and  must  not  enter  into  detail. 
Our  last  college  term  drew  on,  after  which  we 
H 


78 


A VISIT  TO 


were  to  prepare  to  enter  on  our  several  professions. 
Ruthven,  whose  delicate  health  made  him  still 
more  value  the  society  of  his  son,  always  regretted 
the  approach  of  the  period  which  deprived  him  of 
it ; and  this  time  his  absence  was  to  be  much  pro- 
longed in  consequence  of  his  intention  to  visit 
some  relations  in  the  south  of  England  before  his 
return. 

The  evening  before  our  departure,  Mrs.  Mac- 
donald, her  grand-daughter,  Ashley,  his  friend, 
and  myself,  met  at  the  Lodge.  We  were  only 
about  to  exchange,  for  a time,  our  several  man- 
sions for  more  unpleasant  lodgings  near  college ; 
it  was  not  to  be  supposed  that  this  could  diffuse 
a melancholy  feeling  through  our  usually  happy 
party ; yet  how  often  has  such  a party  been  left 
under  similar  circumstances  by  those  who  never 
again  saw  it  assembled.  Before  we  separated, 
Allan,  who  had  been  speaking  to  his  father,  cross- 
ed the  room  to  the  window  where  Ethie  was  sitting ; 
some  straggling  branches  of  jessamine  had  crept 
in,  and  she  was  bending  her  forehead,  almost  as 
fair,  upon  their  white  blossoms.  I was  sitting  op- 
posite and  looking  at  them  both,  and  could  not 
help  thinking,  that  if  I did  not  know  their  lot  in 
life  was  to  be  one,  judging  by  their  different  coun- 
tenances, I should  assign  to  each  a lot  as  different. 
When  Allan  rose  to  exchange  his  seat  again  for 
one  at  the  table,  in  order  to  conclude  the  evening 
by  family  worship,  to  which  act  of  propriety  he 
had  won  over  Ruthven  and  his  grandfather,  1 
heard  him  say  in  a low  voice,  “ I should  leave  my 
poor  father,  Ethie,  with  much  greater  reluctance, 
did  I not  rely  on  those  kind  attentions  I know  he 
has  already  met  with  in  my  absence  ; did  I not 
leave  near  him  his  equally  dear  nurse',  his  other 
diild”  Allan  had  bent*  his  head  to  smell  the 


MY  BIIITU-PLACE. 


79 


branch  of  clustering  flowers  she  had  released,  and 
on  raising  it,  his  face,  if  I had  not  heard  his  words, 
would  have  made  me  curious  to  know  them.  Al- 
lan did  not  in  general  give  an  exposition  of  the 
chapter  he  read  at  the  family  service ; but  this 
evening,  laying  his  hand  on  the  book  he  closed,  he 
looked  up  with  an  expression  of  holy  trust,  saying, 
* yes,  this  God  is  our  God ; circumstances  may 
change,  friends  may  part,  we  may  wander  far  from 
our  home  and  kindred,  but  place  and  time  are 
alike  with  him  ; He  is  the  same  for  ever  and  ever, 
he  will  be  our  guide  even  unto  death.” 

In  the  morning  we  set  off,  each  perhaps  forget- 
ting that  we  were  not  to  travel  thus  through  life 
by  each  other’s  side ; but  we  all  returned  alone. 
College  business  over,  Allan  went  to  see  his  fath- 
er s relations,  it  being  his  particular  wish  that  he 
would  do  so;  and  Ashley  and  myself  went  for 
some  time  to  London.  We  were  detained  there 
longer  than  we  expected,  and  before  our  return, 
Asnley  received  intelligence  that  made  him  wish 
to  delay  it  longer,  and  I therefore  went  back  alone. 
The  day  after  my  arrival  at  home,  I called  at  the 
Lodge  ; Ruthven  told  me,  he  every  day  expected 
his  son  s return,  and  while  we  were  speaking,  a 
chaise  drove  to  the  door,  and  Allan  sprang  from  it. 
After  seeing  him,  and  making  a few  inquiries,  I 
was  going  to  leave  him  to  his  father,  when  Ruth- 
ven leaving  the  room  to  give  some  directions  in 
the  hall,  Allan  threw  himself  uoon  the  sofa  ex- 
claiming, « Oh ! my  dear  B I would  never 

do  to  live  among  the  great  ones  of  the  earth,  nor 
even  among  the  people  of  the  world;  all  my  desire 
ls  to  be  made  useful  in  some  sequestered  spot, 
where  with  a few  chosen  friends,  in  a peaceful 
happy  home,  I might  only  hear  at  a distance  of 
the  stirs  of  this  great  Babel.”  u Andhappv  would 


A VISIT  TO 


SO 

be  the  home,  Allan,  where  you  dwelt.”  I thought, 
but  a sudden  recollection  made  me  start ; I wished 
to  prepare  Allan  for  what  was  before  him;  his  fath- 
er’s entrance,  however,  prevented  me  ; and  feeling 
he  was  the  proper  person  to  do  so,  I left  them. 
Ruthven,  willing  to  put  off  the  evil  moment,  delay- 
ed until  after  dinner  the  tidings  he  had  to  commu- 
nicate, and  then  being  unexpectedly  occupied, 
Allan  left  the  house  without  his  knowledge,  atid 
took  his  accustomed  way  to  Macdonald’s  cottage. 
He  walked  up  the  narrow  path  shown  him  by 
Ethie,  as  that  cut  by  her  father  in  his  boyish  days, 
and  still  called  ‘ Norman’s  Path.’  He  remembered 
the  day  when  he  first  saw  her  on  it,  her  fair  hair 
blowing  in  the  wind,  her  colour  heightened  by  the 
$ir  and  exercise ; he  retraced  the  progress  of  a 
friendship  he  fondly  hoped  would  end  but  with 
their  lives.  u If  aught  of  mortal  birth  can  be  call- 
ed innocent,  she  might.”  u In  the  world  I have  as 
yet  met  none  like  her,  so  natural,  simple,  affec- 
tionate.” The  cottage  door  was  open,  and  he 
went  in,  the  parlour  door  likewise  stood  open,  but 
none  appeared  : es  they  have  gone  to  take  their 
evening  walk  already,”  thought  Allan.  A step 
just  then  crossed  the  passage  ; it  was  Mrs.  Macdon- 
ald’s— she  started  on  seeing  Allan,  nor  did  sur- 
prise subside,  when  he  sprang  w ith  extended  hand, 
and  face  beaming  unaffected  pleasure,  to  meet  her. 
« — “ My  dear  good  friend,  it  seems  so  long  since  I 
have  seen  yon !”  Mrs.  Macdonald  pressed  his 
hand,  but  only  faintly  smiled.  “I  did  not  hope  to 
sep  you  so  soon,  Allan.”  “■  My  lather  has  been 
looking  for  me  these  some  days.”  But  you  had 
not  arrived  last  night.”  “ I only  came  home  to- 
day ; but,  dearest  madam,  you  know  the  cottage 
was  ever  wont  to  be  my  first  visit  after  I had  seen 
my  father  : are  you  sorry  that  it  is  still  so ; that  re* 


OT  BIRTH-PLACE, 


81 


speet  and  affection  for  its  inhabitants  grow  with 
my  years  ?”  “ No,  Allan— Oh  ! that  its  inhabi- 

tants had  deserved  a respect,  an  affection,  that  so 
truly  honoured  them.”  Allan  looked  not  to  un- 
derstand her.  “ But  where  is  Ethie  ; I remember 
when  she  used  to  run  to  meet  her  cross  tutor.” 
Mrs.  Macdonald  changed  colour,  she  looked  sur- 
prised, and  pained.  Allan  looked  at  her  attentive- 
ly ; he  saw  all  was  not  right — some  change — he 
could  not  bear  the  suspense.  “ Tell  me,  Mrs. 
Macdonald,  for  pity’s  sake,  tell  me  has  any  thing 
happened  ? Is  Ethie” — he  glanced  in  terrified 
anxiety  over  her  dress,  to  see  if  it  was  deeper  than 
usual — “ is  Ethie  ill  ?”  “ I hope  not,”  she  repli- 

ed in  a low  voice,  “ but  I thought  you  knew” — 
“ Knew  what  ?”  “ That  she  has  left  me.”  “ Left 

you!— you — where  is  she?”  “She  has  married 
Gardiner.”  The  words  were  almost  inarticulate, 
yet  to  Allan  stunning  as  a thunder-clap  ; without 
withdrawing  his  fixed  gaze  from  Mrs.  Macdonald’s 
fallen  countenance,  he  repeated  them  slowly  after 
her,  paused  a moment,  as  if  considering  them  ; 
then  starting  as  from  a trance,  turned  to  the  win- 
dow. After  a few  moments  he  again  stood  before 
her.  “ I should  be  ashamed  of  myself,  dear  mad- 
am, for  the  manner  in  which  I received  your  tid- 
ings, for  you  must  think  my  conduct  strange,  for 

indeed  I had” Allan  stopped  and  cleared  his 

voice,  “ there  was  no  cause — if  Ethie” Poor 

Allan  began  well,  but  could  not  continue ; he  once 
m^re  turned  abruptly  away  ; Mrs.  Macdonald  sat 
leaning  her  face  on  her  handkerchief,  unwilling 
to  meet  his  eye,  unable  to  speak  to  him  : he  again 
drew  near  her,  and  taking  her  hand— “ Forgive  me, 
Mrs.  Macdonald,  forgive  the  friend  of  your  son 
this  weakness.  I hope  at  another  time  better*  to 
evince  the  interest  I take  in  the  happiness  of  those 


S3 


A VISIT  TO 


he  loved ; now,  I own  I am  not  master  of  myself?" 
He  pressed  her  hand  to  his  lips,  and  hastily  left 
the  house. 

From  that  hour,  the  name  of  Ethie  Macdonald 
never  passed  Allan  Ruthven’s  lips ; once  his 
father,  willing  to  discover  his  feelings,  said  some- 
thing to  her  dispraise— Allan’s  colour  rose  ; “ my 
dear  father?5  he  said  hastily,  “ let  us  believe  that 
the  number  of  our  friends  is  still  the  same,  though 
some  of  them  are  parted  from  us.55 

Allan  did  not  reproach  you,  Ethie — why  should 
I ? his  God  knew  what  was  best  for  him, 

Ashley  did  not  soon  return ; he  had  heard  that 
Gardiner  had  married  Ethie  Macdonald,  and  an- 
grily vowed  he  should  be  his  friend  no  longer : he 
shrunk  from  meeting  Allan,  thinking  he  had  been 
the  innocent  cause  of  wounding  his  peace,  but  he 
did  not  yet  know  the  mind  of  his  friend. 

For  some  short  time  after  this,  Allan  was  much 
alone,  and  I have  reason  to  believe  much  in  prayer 
and  self  examination  : then  he  seemed  to  start 
forth  from  a lethargy  : I thought  him  all  that  was 
to  be  loved,  valued,  admired,  and  imitated  before, 
but  now  he  seemed  a new  creature,  a double  ener- 
gy was  given  to  his  mind,  a fresh  zeal  to  his  con- 
duct, a deep  spirituality  to  his  feelings  ; like  the 
luminary  of  the  day,  bright,  rapid,  cheering,  he 
seemed  daily  more  drawn  away  from  earth,  to  have 
his  conversation  more  in  heaven,  to  live  in  this 
world  solely  to  do  his  Master’s  work— to  look  to 
the  other  for  rest,  peace,  happiness.  That  large 
spreading  oak  I showed  you,  still  seems  to  stand  a 
memento  of  him,  whose  labours  are  over  : labours 
retiring,  lovely  it  is  true,  but  which  were  viewed 
with  approbation  by  the  King  of  kings.  Beneath 
those  spreading  boughs,  I have  seen  him  encir- 
cled by  a group  of  little  ones,  t©  whom  he  pointed 


MY  BIRTII-PLACE, 


83 


out  the  path  of  life.  Yes ; there  is  many  a one 
who,  kept  by  divine  grace,  from  a life  of  sin,  in 
passing  that  tree  can  point  to  it  and  say,  while  to 
the  memory  of  their  young  teacher  is  given  the 
tear  of  gratitude — “ There  I first  heard  the  words 
of  wisdom  ; there  I was  first  Jed  to  Jesus." 

Dear  Allan,  friend,  companion,  guide,  from 
your  lips,  I too,  a careless  sinner,  heard  these 
words  of  wisdom  ; by  you  1 was  first  led  to  Him, 
whose  smile  has  since  enlightened  a dreary  path! 

Every  day  that  endeared  him  more  and  more  to 
me,  lessened  the  period  that  I should  enjoy  his 
society.  I had  but  a very  short  time  longer  to  re- 
main at  my  native  place,  and  knowing  that  I was 
so  soon  to  lose  him,  I kept  closer  to  his  side.  In 
an  intimacy  in  which  every  thought  almost  was 
revealed,  I was  not  long  in  discovering  that  Allan's 
mind  was  resuming  its  former  bent ; his  one  sole 
wish  was  to  devote  his  life  to  his  God,  and  this, 
were  it  possible,  as  a missionary  to  the  benighted 
heathen.  He  delighted  to  hear,  to  reflect,  to  speak 
of  the  time  when  the  heathen  should  be  given  to 
Christ  for  his  inheritance,  and  the  uttermost  parts 
of  the  earth  for  his  possession.  I have  met  him 
rambling  on  the  mountain's  side,  returning  it  might 
be,  from  some  labour  of  love  among  his  neighbours ; 
or  thrown  on  the  river's  bank,  seeking  rest  from 
study,  while  he  thought  of  these  things;  and  a holy 
joy  would  lighten  his  countenance, a transport  spring 
to  his  eye,  when,  after  musing  on  the  superstitious 
barbarity  of  the  Hindoo,  the  ignorant  state  of  the 
benighted  negro,  he  could  recall  some  promise  of 
holy  writ,  and  say,  “ All  nations  whom  He  has 
made  shall  come  and  worship  before  Him ; they 
shall  cast  their  idols  to  the  moles  and  to  the  bats— 
unto  Him  shall  the  Gentiles  seek,  and  find  His 
rest  glorious."  But  though  Allan  longed  to  bear 


84  r A VISIT  TO 

the  glad  tidings  to  far  distant  lands,  he  knew  that 
in  this  also  his  will  was  not  to  be  done. 

“ No/5  he  said  to  me  once,  44  no,  the  work  is 
not  for  me  : highly  favoured  indeed  are  they  who 
are  permitted  to  enter  on  it.  Oh,55  he  exclaimed, 
as  his  eye  sent  its  ardent  glance  over  the  wide 
waste  of  waters,  44  Oh,  favoured  men,  the  wilder- 
ness and  the  solitary  place  shall  be  glad  for  you.55 

Observing  in  him  those  dispositions  so  requisite 
in  a missionary,  zeal,  self-denial,  patience,  dead- 
ness to  the  world,  and  a spirit  as  if  caught  from 
Paul,  when  he  said,  4 To  me  to  live  is  Christ,  and 
to  die  is  gain,5  I once  repressed  the  selfish  feelings 
that  made  me  wish  to  keep  him  among  ourselves, 
and  hinted  at  the  possibility  of  his  being  one  time 
at  liberty  to  devote  himself  to  this  work. 

44  Yes,  B- , that  time  may  come,55  and  he 

sighed  deeply  ; 44  but  you  know  I must  shrink 
from  its  approach.  Besides,  I do  not  feel  as  if  that 
time  would  ever  come ; it  may  be  a wrong  presen- 
timent, but  I have  thought  that  my  life  will  not  be 
a long  one.55 

I started  at  hearing  this.  44  God  forbid,55  I 
exclaimed. 

44  Why,  B— — -,  should  you  wish  my  life  to  be 
prolonged?  Yet  why  do  I ask  such  a question, 
when  I know  you  can  assign  many  a reason.  If, 
however,  the  Lord  has  work  for  me  to  do,  he  will 
spare  me  ; and  if  not,  I hope  it  will  be  fiis  pleasure 
to  take  me  early  from  a waste  howling  wilderness, 
where  the  few  flowers  that  meet  our  eyes  perish  al- 
most as  we  meet  them- — where  the  sorrow  arising 
from  in-dwelling  sin,  earthly  affection,  and  blind 
self-will,  cast  a deeper  shade  over  the  scene.55 

Allan  looked  in  another  direction  while  he 
spoke,  which  gave  me  an  opportunity  to  observe 
him  closer  : his  countenance,  always  mild  and  in- 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


85 


teresting,  appeared  to  me  to  have  assumed  latterly 
an  expression  of  placid,  resigned,  but  fixed  melan- 
choly ; his  complexion,  never  florid,  had  become 
paler,  and  his  figure  more  delicate  than  formerly. 
I sighed  heavily — he  turned  quickly  towards  me, 
and  with  one  of  his  accustomed  smiles,  which 
Ruthven,  in  former  days,  used  to  say  he  borrowed 
from  his  mother,  took  my  arm,  saying,  “ Come,  my 
friend,  I will  make  you  melancholy,  and  yet  believe 
me,  I am  not  so  myself — Oh  no,  the  Christian 
should  not — dare  not  be  so.” 

On  our  way  home,  after  a long  walk,  a horseman 
overtook  us ; he  threw  himself  off,  and  grasped  Al- 
lan’s hand — it  was  Ashley  : he  told  me  afterwards, 
that  Allan’s  cordial  greeting  removed  a load  from 
his  breast.  I too  was  glad  to  see  Ashley  return, 
but  he  only  came  to  supply  the  place  of  another  of 
Allan’s  companions,  for  I was  almost  immediately 
to  leave  home.  Allan  saw  me  entering  with  a far 
too  careless  spirit,  on  a life  that  he  thought  might 
abound  with  trials,  to  one  who  wished  to  live,  not 
as  the  woild  does  ; and  especially  during  the  last 
days  I spent  near  him,  had  always  some  useful 
hint,  some  word  of  Christian  advice  for  me.  As 
our  conversation  generally  passed  in  walks  togeth- 
er, I must  give  an  account  of  one  more,  the  last  I 
had  with  Allan  Ruthven. 

It  was  the  morning  before  I was  to  bid  farewell 
to  the  place  of  my  birth,  the  scene  of  youthful  hap- 
piness, the  friends  of  my  heart ; anxious  as  I had 
been  for  its  arrival,  regret  at  these  things  now  sad- 
dened my  pleasure.  At  Allan’s  request  I had 
risen  with  the  sun  and  called  for  him  at  -the  Lodge  ; 
he  was  already  in  his  study,  and  taking  his  hat 
from  the  table,  stepped  through  the  window  and 
joined  me. 

How  faithfully  does  memory  recall  every  trifle 


86 


A VISIT  TO 

of  things  she  loves  : the  suii  had  risen  with  splen- 
dour, but  we  had  not  walked  far  when  it  lost  its 
brightness  ; the  clear^blue  ,sky  was  overcast,  the 
face  of  the  heavens  wasV ‘changed,  and  the  wide 
extended  prospect,  lately  smiling  in  the  early  sun- 
beam, became  obscured.  I remarked  the  change. 
“ So,”  said  Allan,  “ fades  many  an  early  promise, 
so  sinks  many  a one  in  . the  clouds  of  worldly  cares, 
business,  or  even  pleasures'”’  . He  saw,  I suppose,  by 
my  countenance,  something  of  what  passed  in  my 
mind,  for  he  instantly  said  with  a look  of  affection, 
turning  to  me,  “ Do  not  suppose,  my  dear  friend, 
that  I meant  to  allude  to  what  might  be  your  case. 

No,  B , I trust  the  Lord  has  chosen  you  for  his 

own,  and  as  such,  he  will  guide  you  through  every 
trial,  temptation,  and  difficulty,  until  he  receive 
you  to  himself. 

“ You  think,  then,  I must  necessarily  meet  those 
things  V’ 

“ In  every  situation  in  life,  dejir  B , the 

Christian  must  expect  to  meet  with  trials  ; if  he  has 
not  much  of  those  that  come  from  without,  he  has 
those  that  come  from  within.” 

“ But  do  you  think  that  God  gives  his  people 
strength  and  grace  to  stand  against  them  ?” 

“ Undoubtedly — to  those  who  rely  on  His  help 
—who  are  continually  seeking  to  Him  for  it— who 
are  fearful  in  trusting  to  themselves;  but,  my  friend, 
it  is  not  of  the  final  ruin  of  souls  I speak.  I fear 
there  are  many  who  embitter  their  own  cup  in  life, 
who  bring  an  awful  darkness  over  their  souls,  and 
oblige  the  Almighty  to  visit  their  iniquity  with  the 
rod,  and  their  sin  with  scourges,  if  He  would 
bring  them  again  to  their  first  estate.”  Allan 
here  related  to  me  a conversation  he  had  with  his 
mother  a day  or  two  before  her  death,  adding, 


MV  BIRTH-PEACE. 


87 


“ this  made  an  impression  on  my  mind,  1 hope 
never  to  be  effaced.”  m 

“Yet,  Allan,  I cannot"  .'think  it  so  difficult  to 
persevere  in  a religious  life  While  living  in  the 
world,  and  surrounded  by  incitements  and  exam- 
ples to  the  contrary,  when  I know  that  while  yet  a 
boy,  you  could  hold  on  in  a life  of  profession  and 
practice  so  totally  opposed  to  all  around  you.” 

“ B , there  are  some  more  likely  to  fall  into 

peculiar  temptations  than  others ; I believe  my  na- 
ture was  averse  to  many  of  those  things  that  had 
proved  fatal  to  many  ; there  are  certainly  others 
into  which  I should  run,  were  it  not  for  the  re- 
straining power  of  Divine  grace':  It  was  my  belov- 

ed mother’s  daily  /mploy.  during  her  last  illness,  to 
endeavour  td"  fortify  'fob  for  the  state  of  Christian 
warfare  upon 'which  ishe  saw  I must  enter  : while 
she  was  with  me,  F scarcely  knew  myself— when 
she  was  gone,  I started  at  finding  myself  left  in 
such  a world  without  one  friend  to  guide,  to  en- 
courage me  in  the  Christian  course.  I besought 
God  himself  to  be  that  friend  ! • I asked  his  grace  to 
preserve  me,  and  it  was  given.  The  plan!  adopt- 
ed afterwards  was  the  best  ; "the  only  way  to  keep 
my  heart  firm,  was  to  live  close  -to  God  : this  was 
the  sum  of  my  pother’s  advice.  Knowing  the 
danger  of  walking  carelessly  by  the  edge  of  the 
narrow  road,  or  in  any  instance,  or  for  any  purpose 
seeming  to  diverge  from  it,  I thought,  as  it  were, 
to  keep  in  tne  middle  of  the  patn,  avoiding  even  a 
glance  at  the  crowded  -way  along  which  1°  grieved 
to  know  my  dearest  friends  were  hurrying  with  the 
rest : to  the  Bible,  as  lire  rule  of  my  conduct,  I 
referred  for  direction every  doubt,  I brought  for 
solution  to  One  all-wise : feeling  that  I had  no 
mortal  guide,  no  counsellor,  or  teacher  in  spiritual 
things,  I learned  to  be  more  watchful  over  myself. 


88 


A VISIT  TO 


I feared  to  trust  my  own  heart,  to  listen  to  its  sug* 
gestions,  until  I had  first  examined  their  source* 
and  looked  out  of  myself,  above  all  creatures,  for 
strength  and  comfort.  Thus*  though  breathing  an 
atmosphere  deleterious,  it  would  seem,  to  piety,  I 
was,  through  continued  grace,  kept  from  wander- 
ing, and  acquired  a steadiness,  a spirituality  in  re- 
ligion, at  that  early  age,  which,  in  seemingly  more 
favourable  circumstances,  did  not,  I grieve  to  say, 
exist  in  the  same  degree.” 

I did  not  fully  understand  what  Allan  meant  by 
the  last  sentence,  and  was  going  to  ask  him  to  ex- 
plain himself,  when  looking  up,  I was  rather  sur- 
prised to  see  the  earnest  attention  with  which  Ash- 
ley was  listening  to  him  : he  had  joined  us  at  the 
beginning  of  the  conversation  I have  related,  and 
after  Allan  and  I had  sat  down  on  a rustic  seat  by 
the  river,  he  threw  himself  on  the  bank,  and  seem- 
ed entirely  occupied  in  watching  the  fish  dashing 
through  the  water,  or  rising  to  the  top,  and  some- 
times springing  some  way  out  of  it ; we  had  soon 
forgotten  he  was  by ; but  he  was  not  long  inatten- 
tive : he  was  now  raised  on  his  elbow,  evidently 
desirous  of  hearing  and  understanding  our  conver- 
sation. Allan  partook  in  my  surprise  at  the  change 
in  his  friend’s  manner,  for  when  topics  humbling 
to  the  pride  of  man  were  introduced,  Ashley  seem- 
ed to  wish  to  avoid  hearing  the  only  things  that 
made  him  think  Allan  Ruthven  was  an  imperfect 
character.  The  fact  was,  Ashley  had  reason  lat- 
terly to  doubt  the  truth  of  the  doctrines  he  held 
himself ; he  had  begun  to  suspect  his  high-flown 
maxims  were  not  sufficient  to  carry  him  unspotted 
through  a world  like  this ; in  the  short  time  he 
had  spent  among  people  with  whom  all  he  prided 
himself  on  was  a jest,  he  had  found  it  was  a harder 
thing  than  he  thought,  to  maintain  the  principles 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


89 


m practice,  of  which,  when  no  temptation  assailed, 
he  had  boasted  in  profession  : he  now  heard  Allan 
describe  his  former  situation  and  conduct,  and  the 
subject  roused  and  rivetted  his  attention : he  had 
seen  too  many  things  that  led  him  to  think,  that 
that  renovation  of  heart,  of  which  he  had  heard, 
was  needful  indeed  before  man  could  offer  unto  God 
any  acceptable  service;  he  had  thought  of  these 
things  more  deeply  amid  crowds,  hurry,  and  excite- 
ment, than  ever  he  had  done  in  his  own  retired 
vale  ; and  the  vices,  the  profan^ness,  and  careless- 
ness he  had  seen  in  the  world,  did  more  to  con- 
vince him  of  the  truth  of  what  Allan  said,  than 
any  thing  he  met  there.  Seeing  he  had  attracted 
our  observation,  he  started  up,  saying,  “ he  believ- 
ed breakfast  hour  was  come.”  Allan  remembered 
his  father  would  be  waiting  for  him,  and  asking 
me  to  call  on  him  in  the  evening,  hastily  took  his 
way  across  the  meadow  to  the  Lodge. 

Evening  came,  and  all  preparation  for  the 
next  day  being  made,  I went  to  take  leave  of  my 
dear  friend  and  companion  at  the  Lodge.  As  I 
drew  near,  I saw  him  sitting  at  the  window 
reading.  * 

“ May  I come  in,  Allan  ?” 

Certainly,  dear  B , no  fear  of  disturbing 

me.  Except  my  father,  yourself  and  Ashley  are 
my  only  guests  here.” 

While  he  said  this,  I remembered  how  often  I 
had  seen  Mrs.  Macdonald  occupying  that  seat, 
while  Ethie  adorned  the  little  apartment  with  flow- 
ers, or  looked  through  his  books  for  one  she  in- 
tended to  borrow ; but  Ethie’s  name  seemed  for- 
gotten, and  Mrs.  Macdonald,  though  often  at  the 
Lodge,  seldom  came  into  Allan’s  study.  After 
speaking  a little  on  my  future  plans  and  prospects, 

T 


90 


A VISIT  TO 


we  came  back  to  the  subject  we  were  on  in  the 
morning. 

“Now  Allan,  will  you  let  me  ask  you  a question,” 
Allan  looked  at  me  a moment — “ Surely  my 
friend;  you  could  not— you  would  not  ask’ one 
that  it  would  not  give  me  pleasure  to  answer.” 

“ Wllat  did  y°u  mean  by  saying  this  morning 
that  in  seemingly  more  favourable  circumstances 
you  did  not  maintain  an  equal  steadiness  in  relig- 
ion V*  6 

He  looked  thoughtful  for  a little;  then  said,  “J 

will  tell  you,  B , for  my  short  experience  of  a 

religious  life  may  be  useful  to  you.  But  do  not 
suppose  that  what  I say  is  meant  as  a general  opin- 
ion  ; I speak  of  my  own  case  individually  when  I 
say,  I have  found  the  society  of  open  opposers 
more  conducive  to  the  life  of  religion  in  my  souk 
than  that  of  cold,  dead,  professing  Christians/7 
“ I do  not  clearly  understand  you  still/7 
"Well,  I will  explain  myself  more  fully.  My 
manner  of  life  before  I came  here  I have  often  told 
you;  with  what  feelings  I changed  it,  I believe 
you  also  know.  I often  look  back  to  the  feelings 
with  which  I came  to  this  place,  with  shame  and 
regret  that  they  so  soon  subsided.  My  heart  was 
then  filled  with  love  to  Gbd  for  his  dealings  with 
me  ; I longed  to  be  emploved  in  his  service ; to 
devote  myself,  body,  soul,  and  spirit  to  him  : but  a 

sad  change  took  place.  You  look  surprised,  B : 

but,  my  friend,  though  you  were  not  aware  of  that 
change,  I have  since  discovered  it.  I met  here 
with  friends,  I was  prepared  to  love  and  esteem. 

1 saw,  it  is  true,  that  they  were  not  without  errors, 
but  I had  reason  to  hope  I had  been  useful  to  them. 

1 accommodated  myself  to  their  manners,  in  some 
degree  at  least,  in  the  hope  of  winning  them  more 
effectually  to  my  side ; and  this  point  apparently 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


91 


gained,  I did  not  perceive  the  deadening  effect 
their  half  christianized  spirit  had  on  mine,  "until  I 
was  painfully  aroused  to  a knowledge  of  the  truth.” 
“ Dear  Allan,  you  judge  yourself  hardly ; surely, 
since  the  time  you  came  to  live  among  us,  your 
life  has  been  spent  in  active  usefulness.  I,  for 
one,  to  the  latest  hour  of  my  life,  must  owe  you 
much  more  than  I can  ever  pay,  for  the  benefit  of 
your  conversation,  advice,  and  example.” 

“ Ah  J yes ; I could  speak,  -and  feel  too ; but, 

, I repeat,  the  life  of  religion  in  my  soul  was 

not  so  vigorous  as  ft  had  been;  my  walk  of  faith 
was  not  so  close.  I yielded  to  many  a thing  I 
formerly  would  not  have  consented  to,  either  not 
giving  myself  the  trouble  of  examining  if  I was 
light  in  doing  so,  or  I fear  too  often  listening  to 
the  pleadings  of  my  corrupt  heart,  which  would 
allege  in  excuse  of  every  deviation,  ‘ Is  it  not  a 
little  one  V or  persuade  me  I was  right  in  yielding 
in  trifles  to  the  wishes  of  my  friends.” 

“ Well,  Allan,  you  know  your  heart  best;  it  is 
not  for  me  to  dispute  the  truth  of  what  you  say  : 
and  far  be  it  from  me,  to  give  more  honour  than  is 
due  to  the  creature  ; but  this  I can  say  with  truth, 
that  I have  wished,  and  do  wish,  to  form  my  life 
on  your’s.” 

Take  care,  B— , I fear  you  do  give  undue 

honour ; but  attachment  to  your  friends  prevents 
your  seeing  their  defects,  or  you  would  choo.se  a 
better  model ; and  this  makes  me  remember  what 
I intended  saying  to  you  before  we  part.  God 
only  knows  where  we  shall  meet  again— but  this  is 
the  last  advice  of  one  to  whom  you  have  always 
listened,  as  if  age  or  superior  wisdom  gave  him 
authority  to  speak  : I would  say  to  you,  beware  of 
that  rock  on  which  so  many  split;  beware  of  giv- 
ing to  the  creature  the  love  due  only  to  the  Crea- 


9:2 


\ VISIT  TO 


tor.  Your  heart,  like  my  own,  is,  I fear,  prone  to 
twine  round  earthly  objects  : but  I warn  you,  let 
not  your  high  opinion  of  any  one,  however  belov- 
ed, lead  you  from  your  God.  In  every  thing  study 
to  know  and  do  his  will ; whatever  pursuit,  em- 
ployment, or  desire,  opens  to  your  view,  before  you 
suffer  your  affections  to  be  engaged,  try  to  find  if 
it  is  acceptable  to  him  ; when  once  they  are  so, 
we  are  apt  to  mistake  our  will  for  God’s,  and  then 
they  bring  sorrow  to  our  hearts.” 

“ Attachments  to  any  objects,  however  pure, 
if  allowed  to  grow  to  an  inordinate  degree,  are  sin- 
ful, and  to  the  Christian  must  be  painful,”  I 
said. 

“ Yes,  B— , an  instance  of  this  I had  in  mine 
to  dear  Macdonald.”  Allan  sighed  deeply,  “ While 
he  was  lent  to  me,  I was  very  willing  to  abide  in 
his  light — to  look  to  him  for  that  guidance,  direc- 
tion, and  support  I had  before  been  used  to  seek 
at  a higher  source.  I sat  beneath  the  shadow  of 
Christian  friendship  with  great  delight ; but  when 
he  was  taken  from  me,  I sought  to  walk  only  in 
the  light  of  Christ  my  Lord — to  find  him  a refuge 
from  the  storm — a shadow  from  the  heat.  In  the 
same  way,  our  homes,  our  social  pleasures,  our 
domestic  enjoyments,  may  be  our  idols  and  our 
punishments.  Do  you  remember,  B , a con- 

versation we  had  one  evening  on  Nairn  Point, 
respecting  Missionaries  ?” 

“ I do,  Allan,  well.” 

“ Ah,  my  friend,  I have  since  thought  I deceiv- 
\ ed  myself  in  believing  that  I yielded  up  the  desire 
of  going  a messenger  of  Christ  to  the  Gentiles  on 
the  best  grounds- — I now  fear  other  things  mingled 
with  the  sense  of  duty  that  I persuaded  myself 
alone  compelled  me  to  resign  it ; — home,  friends, 
ties  of  social  life — these  things  twined  more  about 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


93 

my  heart,  were  preferred  even  in  prospect  to  the 
service  o f my  God,  to  the  good  of  perishing  souls. 
But  I have  been  roused  from  my  dream  ; I have 
been  shown  the  frailty  of  the  reeds  on  which  I 
have  leaned.  Never  more,  I hope,  shall  creatures 
share  the  first  devotion  of  a heart  I would  conse- 
crate to  God  alone.  O now,  if  He  would  send  me 
to  bear  his  everlasting  Gospel  to  the  nations  of  the 
earth,  how  gladly,  how  quickly,  would  I go  ! But 
no,”  he  said  the  next  moment,  the  transitory  illu- 
mination fading  from  his  face,  and  leaving  it  paler 

than  before — “ He  may  have  other  work  for  me 

that  may  be  to  die.  Something  tells  me,  that  in- 
stead of  the  wide,  pathless  main,  I soon  shall  pass 
the  narrow  waters  of  Jordan.” 

“ Dear  Allan,  do  not  speak  so— do  not  let  these 
forebodings  get  possession  of  your  mind.  An  ex- 
tended, useful,  happy  life  is,  I trust,  before  you.  I 
shall  yet  see  you  in  some  pastoral  mansion,  blest 
with  all  your  heart  can  desire,  and  imparting  bless- 
ings to  others.  You  will  find  you  can  be  useful 
here,  and  cease  to  wish  that  a missionary  path  lay 
before  you  : in  your  country,  your  home,  and 
friends,  you  will  find  happiness  as  unmixed  as  falls 
to  the  lot  of  mortals.  We  shall  be  united  a^ain 
and”—  * 5 

And  our  hearts,  mine  at  least,  will  centre  in 
these  earthly  enjoyments,”  interrupted  Allan. 

Sanguino  B ,”  he  continued,  smilino* 

though  with  an  air  of  melancholy,  “ I fear  you 
look  for  more  happiness  on  earth  than  earth  can 
yield.  Yet  there  are  those  to  whom  the  things 
you  look  for  are  given,  and  they  can  use  without 
abusing  these  precious  gifts.  But  ah  ! my  friend, 

I have  learned  to  mistrust  this  heart ; and  though 
1 hope  creatures  shall  never  again  possess  that  as- 


u 


A VISIT  TO 


cendency  over  me  they  have  done,  yet  I know 
how  prone  it  is  to  idolatry.” 

The  shades  of  the  evening  now  stealing  over 
the  lawn,  reminded  me  that  I was  to  set  out  with 
the  dawn,  and  had  yet  something  to  do.  Though 
I could  have  willingly  sat  for  hours  with  Allan 
Ruthven,  I was  obliged  to  look  at  my  watch.  He 
started  at  the  action. 

“ B dear  B ,”  he  cried  with  an  emo- 

tion I did  not  expect,  “ we  must  part,  God  knows 
when  to  meet.  Have  I wasted  time  in  speaking  of 
myself?  Trust  me,  the  subject  would  have  been 
avoided,  did  I hot  hope  my  example — my  experi- 
ence, would  be  useful  to  you.  But  now  we  part ; 
such  days  as  we  have  spent  we  never  may  spend 
again  ; both  of  us  may  look  back  to  them  in  our 
pilgrimage  through  life  with  fond  remembrance  ; 
we  have  taken  sweet  counsel  together  : we  have 
walked  as  friends.  Beware  now  of  the  world — 
watch  over  your  own  heart— live  close  with  God — 
be  much  in  prayer,  in  self-examination,  in  self-de- 
nial and  my  parting  prayer  for  you  is,  may  the 
grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  be  with  your 
spirit.” 

“ Dear,  dear  Allan  ! no  prayer  for  you  need 
my  heart  now  breathe  and  at  the  moment  of 
parting  I felt  it  was  more  needful  for  myself  than 
him. 

Here,  except  by  an  occasional  letter,  my  inter- 
course with  Allan  Ruthven  ceased.  In  one  of 
these  truly  valuable  letters,  he  says,  e*  I feared  that 
in  losing  you  I lost  the  last  friend,  every  chord  in 
whose  heart  responded  with  mine.  On  other  sub- 
jects in  our  little  society,  all  was  harmony  ; but 
religion  touched  on,  produced  a dissonance.  You 
were  the  only  one  of  my  chosen  friends  who  view- 
ed it  in  the  light  I did,  and  when  you  left  me,  I 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


05 


could  not  forbear  asking,  did  the  Lord  see  it  right 
that  I should  be  always  alone  ? Was  I never  to  en- 
joy the  communion  of  saints,  which,  indeed,  I 
prize?  But  His  mercy  still  follows  me,  and,  my 
friend,  I have  found  one,  who  in  a truly  Christian 
spirit  can  supply  your  place  to  me.  Ashley,  our 
dear  Ashley,  is  the  man  ! methinks  I hear  you 
say  the  pride  of  man  shall  be  brought  down,  and 
the  haughtiness  of  man  shall  be  laid  low,  and  the 

Lord  alone  shall  be  exalted.  Yes,  B , Ashley’s 

pride  is  laid  low,  the  Lord  is  exalted  in  his  eyes, 
it  is  laid  even  at  the  foot  of  that  cross,  from  whence 
he  now,  like  Paul,  draws  all  his  glory.” 

After  this  I had  a letter  from  Ashley,  in  which 
he  tells  me  himself  of  his  change  of  opinions,  and 
gratefully  and  affectionately  speaks  of  Allan  as  the 
means  of  leading  him  to  know  himself  and  to  know 
his  God. 

“I  now  see,”  he  says,  “ by  the  deeds  of  the 
law,  no  flesh  can  be  justified  ; that  the  heart  of 
man  is  truly  deceitful  above  all  things  and  des- 
perately wicked that  an  impure  fountain  cannot 
send  forth  pure  waters ; that  only  in  Christ,  God 
can  be  the  pure,  the  holy,  just  God,  and  yet  the 
justifier  of  sinful  man.” 

In  this  letter  he  also  tells  me,  that  Allan  and  he 
expected  to  be  ordained  at  the  same  time,  and 
describes  the  frame  of  mind  in  which  his  friend 
looked  forward  to  entering  on  his  sacred  office, 
and  his  own  desire  to  catch  a portion  of  the  spirit 
that  animated  him  ; ee  but  whether  from  study,  or 
some  other  cause,”  he  writes,  “ Allan  does  not 
look  as  well  as  when  you  saw  him ; he  has  grown 
thin  and  pale,  and  has  very  little  appetite  ; his 
father  is  very  uneasy,  and  wishes  him  to  change 
the  air,  but  Allan  only  smiles  when  the  subject  is 
mentioned ; he  feels  himself  quite  unapprehensive, 


A VISIT  TO 


9ti 

and  indeed  I,  would  find  difficulty  in  thinking  that 
when  the  Lord  has  so  much  to  be  done  on  the 
earth,  he  would  remove  so  efficient  an  instrument 
front  it.  You  will  say  how  often  do  we  see  such 
taken  away  ? True — His  ways  lire  not  as  our  ways, 
but  they  are  just  and  wise.” 

This  account  of  Allan  gave  me  an  alarm  the 
writer  did  not  seem  to  feel — the  presentiment  he 
had  so  often  expressed  recurred  to  my  mind,  and  I 
feared  it  would  be  realized.  I tvas  on  the  eve  of 
leaving  the  kingdom,  I could  only  write  to  Ashley 
to  express  something  of  what  I felt  respecting  our 
dear  friend,  and  beg  of  him  to  give  me  from  time  to 
time  every  information  respecting  him  ; but  as  I 
might  not  ever  receive  those  letters,  I also  request- 
ed, that  if  my  fears  were  verified,  he  would  pre- 
serve for  me  an  account  of  the  closing  scene.  I 
am  not,  I believe,  one  of  those  who  are  easily  made 
to  shed  tears,  yet  as  I wrote  the  request,  one  fell 
and  blotted  the  word. 

As  I had  feared,  change  of  place  and  circum- 
stances prevented  my  ever  receiving  letters  if  they 
ever  did  write  to  me  ; it  was  not  until  my  return 
that  I received  any  information  of  Allan. 

From  the  time  that  his  increased  delicacy  of 
appearance  became  obvious,  it  rapidly  grew  more 
observable;  but  as  his  body  decayed,  his  mind, 
like  that  of  his  mother,  became  more  vigorous ; he 
seemed  to  think  time  w ould  be  too  short  to  devote 
to  the  service  of  his  God,  and  over  exertion  some- 
times reduced  him  to  a state  of  languor  and  debil- 
ity that  alarmed  his  friends  ; but  Allan  strove  to 
dissipate  their  anxiety,  when  he  looked  up  and 
saw  his  father  regarding  him  with  an  expression  of 
sorrow'  that  touched  his  very  heart ; he  would  smile, 
and  gently  and  assiduously  endeavour  to  divert  his 
thoughts.  Ruthven  loved  him  more  than  ever ; 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE, 


97 

he  wished  to  have  him  always  near  him,  to  hear 
him,  to  see  him;  he  now  frequently  led  the  way 
to  religious  conversation,  which  he  before  shunned, 
and  Allan  feeling  every  day  more  deeply  for  the 
state  of  his  father  and  grandfather,  seized  every 
opportunity  of  introducing  it.  Ruthven  listened 
to  him  with  pleasure,  and  sometimes  proposed 
questions  Allan  delighted  to  answer  ; but  at  times, 
when  he  saw  his  face  lighted  up  with  holy  energy, 
while  he  pointed  out  to  him  the  path  of  life,  his  At- 
tention would  be  drawn  from  what  he  was  saying 
to  his  altered  appearance,  and  he  would  suddenly 
interrupt  him  by  some  anxious  inquiry  or  the  pro- 
posal of  some  plan  for  the  recovery  of  his  health. 
Once  he  said, tf*  Allan,  when  I see  myself,  as  it 
were  marked  out  for  sorrow,  I am  tempted  to  think 
I must  have  been  a.  great  sinner.”  “ All,  all  are 
sinners,  my  dear  father/’  Allan  would  say,  “ but 
do  not  suppose  that  those  who  suffer  most  in  this 
world  are  always  marked  out  for  vengeance ; no, 
many  are  the  troubles  of  the  righteous,  but  the 
Lord  delivereth  him  out  of  them  all.  Look  on 
your  afflictions,  my  father,  as  sent  by  the  hand  of 
love  to  draw  you  to  himself;  then  his  loving  cor- 
rection shall  make  you  great — refuse  to  acknowl- 
edge his  hand  and  turn  to  him,  and  then  indeed 
you  may  think  that  he  wounds  in  wrath.” 

Ashley  always  met  his  friend  every  Saturday 
morning  in  his  study,  to  read  the  Scriptures  with 
him  ; Ruthven  latterly  used  to  come  into  the  room 
and  throw  himself  on  the  sopha  opposite  the  table 
where  they  sat ; they  soon  perceived  that  he  at- 
tended to  their  remarks,  and  leaving  all  hrnh  and 
controverted  points,  kept  simply  to  Gospel  doc- 
trines, explaining  and  enforcing  them  as  if  solely 
ior  each  other' s benefit — and  doubtless  their  own 
souls  were  also  benefited ; but  Ruthven  was  the 


98 


A VISIT  TC) 


chief  gainer,  for  thus  was  the  son  conferring  new 
life,  and  light,  and  instruction  upon  the  father, 
and  thus,  was  the  Lord,  in  his  own  good  time  and 
way,  answering  the  praters  of  the  pious  Ellen  and 
her  son,  and  even  at  the  eleventh  hour  calling  in  a 
long  wandering  sheep  to  the  Shepherd  and  Bishop 
of  his  soul. 

Ellen  never  saw  the  answer  to  her  prayers  for 
her  husband  : Allan  was  permitted  to  do  so,  but 
not  long  to  see  that  which  he  had  ardently  wished 
for,  his  father  walking  in  newness  of  life. 

I now  take  up  the  remaining  narrative  in  Ash- 
ley’s own  words. 

“ On  the  7th  of  last  September  I called  at  the 
Lodge,  and  found  Allan  had  not  risen  to  breakfast ; 
I went  to  his  bed-side  ; he  looked  ill  and  weak, 
and  owned  that  he  had  passed  a restless  and  fever- 
ish night.  In  a few  days,  however,  his  illness 
wore  away,  and  we  again  walked  and  sat  as  usual. 
I need  not  tell  you  how  dear  the  recollection  of 
this  time  is  to  me  < you  know  how  I loved  Allan 
Ruthven,  even  when  that  bond  did  not  unite  us 
that  now  made  us  one  in  soul.  Every  day  he  be- 
came more  and  more  dear  to  us,  and  every  day  he 
seemed  to  sit  lighter  by  earth,  to  acquire  new  en- 
ergy and  zeal,  to  wish  to  live  solely  to  do  his 
Master’s  work,  and  to  look  forward  to  heaven  as  the 
exile  to  his  home.  Nor  were  his  labours  of  retired 
usefulness  lightened  in  consequence  of  the  failure 
of  his  health  : each  -period  of  the  day  had  its  ap- 
pointed work  but  one  ; the  evening,  was  at  this 
season  reserved  for  that  he  loved  best : for  teaching 
the  ignorant,  instructing  the  simple,  Allan  was 
peculiarly  calculated  ; this  was  one  cause  perhaps 
that  led' him  to  wish  to  go  to  the  ignorant  heathen, 
and  next  to  them,  I believe  he  found  greatest 
pleasure  in  instructing  his  poor  children.  Return- 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


99 

ing  one  evening  from  a visit  at  some  distance,  I 
heard  Allan's  voice  beneath  the  oak  which  you 
remember  well : he  was  sitting  on  the  little  mound 
he  had  raised  at  its  foot,  surrounded  by  the  atten- 
tive inquiring  countenances  of  his  little  flock  ; he 
generally,  you  know,  chose  some  story  or  parable 
from  Scripture  for  their  instruction  ; the  present 
was  Naaman  the  leper.  As  I drew  behind  him  he 
was  saying,  ‘ Abana  and  Pharpar,  rivers  of  Damas- 
cus ; mark  how  they  are  exalted  rivers  of  the  great 
city,  the  city  Damascus;  ‘are  they  not,’  proud 
.Naaman  asks,  ‘ better  than  all  the  waters  of  Israel?’ 
let  the  despised  waters  of  Israel  are  those  alone 
which  can  heal  his  diseased  body  : thus  we  despise 
or  overlook  means  of  God’s  appointing,  thinking 
we  can  procure  better,  more  honourable  for  our- 
selves. To  the  true  ‘waters  of  Israel,’  to  the 
fountain  opened  for  sin  and  uncleanness,  to  the 
~°j  Jesu?’  Tthe  Proud  heart  of  man,  like  Naaman 
to  despised  Jordan,  finds  difficulty  in  returning. 

-Like  Lot  driven  from  flaming  Sodom,  and 
trembling  for  his  life,  he  will  not  flee  to  the  moun- 
tain of  God  s appointing  for  safety,  but  chooses  for 
himself  a place  of  refuge  : and  various  are  the  re- 
fuges to  which  we  fly  for  deliverance  from  flames 
more  dreadful ; but  if  we  are  to  escape  them,  we 
shall  be  driven  from  these  refuges  of  lies,  as  Lot  to 
the  mountains,  as  Naaman  to  the  despised  waters 
to  the  only  place  of  safety  for  the  soul,  to  the  only 
J™  can  remove  its  leprosy,  even  to  Christ 

When  Allan  dismissed  his  little  auditory  and 
rose  up,  he  saw  he  had  had  another  hearer  beside 
nimselt ; Ruthven  had  stood  unperceived  behind 
us  and  as  Allan  had  turned  his  face  round  the 
hall  circular  group,  its  paleness,  sweetness,  mild- 
/S  9 Jomed  to  his  words,  and  adding  additional 


100 


A VISIT  TO 


weight  to  them,  forced  the  tears  so  thickly  to  his 
eyes,  that  when  his  son  arose,  the  scene  swam  be- 
fore him.  “ Welcome  to  our  pleasant  oak,  my 
father,”  said  Allan  smiling ; “ we  shall  hope  since 
you  have  made  your  way  here,  often  to  see  you  be- 
neath it,  soon  an  assistant,  not  a listener.”  Ruth- 
ven  I believe  could  not  reply ; he  endeavoured  to 
return  his  son’s  smile,  and  we  walked  back  to- 
gether. 

“ I believe,  Allan,”  said  I,  £C  when  we  were 
alone  together,  there  are  few  things  for  which  you 
would  exchange  your  little  assembly  beneath  the 
oak,  unless  it  be  for  the  shade  of  a palm  tree  and 
a circle  of  darker  faces.” 

Allan  smiled.  “ I believe  you  may  be  right, 
Ashley.”  I had  turned  his  mind  to  the  subject  it 
loved  to  dwell  on.  “ Often,”  he  said,  “ in  my 
lonely  rambles,  I picture  to  myself  some  poor 
negro,  straying  by  his  sea-girt  coast,  looking  on 
creation’s  wonders  with  an  unconscious  gaze,  not 
knowing  the  hand  that  made  them  : it  seems  as  if 
I heard  him  deploring,  ‘ No  man  careth  for  my 
soul.’  Oh  ! who  would  refuse  to  send  the  Gospel 
of  salvation  ? Some  may,— Yet  a time  will  come, 
when  the  isles  shall  sing  his  praise  ; when  in  the 
wilderness  and  the  desert,  streams  of  water,  pure 
living  water  shall  be  found.  When  they  shall 
come  in  crowds,  saying,  ‘ This  is  our  God,  we 
have  heard  of  him,  we  will  serve  him.’” 

Then  Allan’s  eye  brightened  from  its  languor — 
“ Oh  ! who  would  count  their  life  dear  unto  them, 
might  they  but  advance  that  blessed  time  when 
one  God  shall  be  worshipped  from  the  rising  to  the 
setting  sun.” 

“ Allan,  have  you  ever  considered  the  difficul- 
ties and  trials  of  a missionary  life  ?” 

“ Yes,  and  more  than  this,  I have  weighed  them 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


101 


against  its  joys,  its  obligations,  and  have  found 
them  lighter ; I found  that  in  the  strength  of  my 
God  I could  leave  all,  could  undertake  all.  I 
think  I know  what  a missionary  should  be  ; the 
dispositions  are  dear  to  my  own  mind,  such  as 
through  life  I fain  would*  practise.  I own  my  de- 
ficiency, but  one  thing  would  support  me,  even 
that  which  supported  the  great  Apostle  of  the  Gen- 
tiles,— the  grace  of  God  is  sufficient  for  me.” 

How  cold,  indeed,  must  be  the  mind  that  caught 
no  reflection  from  one  so  glowing,  though  in  other 
things  I fear  I did  not  improve,  sufficiently,  the 
privilege  of  such  society  ; in  this  I think  I caught 
■j  & portion  of  his  spirit.  But,  ah  ! I soon  saw  cause 
to  fear  that  Allan’s  course,  as  yet  a retired  one, 
a lovely  one,  was  not  to  expand.  Like  the  stream, 
that,  oozing  from  the  mountain’s  side,  ran  clear 
and  low  through  the  neighbouring  meadows,  giving 
life  and  refreshment  to  things  in  its  own  immediate 
way,  without  attracting  notice  or  applause,  save 
from  some  humble  admirer  who  tasted  its  freshness, 
or  listened  well-pleased*  to  its  soft  murmur,  Allan 
wound  his  gentle  way  : other  streams  deepening 
and  widening  in  their  progress  might  roll  on,  com 
veying  life  and  health,  noted  and  admired  at  a 
distance  from  their  source — this  soon  poured  its 
waters  into  the  ocean,  and  following  up  the  meta- 
phor, I sighed  while  I thought,  ‘ So  wall  Allan’s 
course  be  stopped,  so  wall  the  wide  ocean  of  eter- 
nity receive  him,  ere  he  commences  a course  brill- 
iant, shining,  useful !’ 

The  period  of  our  ordination  drew  on  ; its  ap- 
proach seemed  to  lend  new  vigour  to  Allan’s  frame, 
but  he  sank  again  ; Ruthven  watched  and  nursed 
him  with  a mother's  care,  his  life  seemed  to  hang 
upon  his  son’s.  * 

I remember  one  evening  coming  through  the 

K 


102 


A VISIT  TO 


shrubbery  to  the  house,  and  seeing  him  endeav- 
ouring to  fasten  up  a branch  of  the  latest  roses  of 
the  season,  that  grew  by  a southern  wall,  and  now 
hung  down,  threatening  by  its  motion,  the  destruc-  } 
tion  of  its  flowers  ; the  want  of  his  arm  prevented 
his  success,  and  after  every  effort,  he  was  disap- 
pointed. I hastened  on  and  offered  my  assistance; 
Ruthven  yielded  me  his  place  ; saying,  as  he  did 
so,  in  a tone  that  spoke  him,  I thought,  a little 
tinctured  by  those  romantic  feelings,  which  he 
seems  always  to  have  possessed  : “ thus  every  ef- 
fort of  mine  to  raise  again  the  drooping  plants  I , 
loved,  has  proved  abortive.” 

But,  in  Allan’s  case,  Rutliven’s  hopes  revived, 
for  his  health  was  evidently  amended,  his  strength 
renewed,  and  it  seemed  that  in  answer  to  our 
prayer,  length  of  days  would  be  added  to  him.  I 
must,  my  friend,  be  brief,  although  I know  every 
incident  would  be  interesting  to  you.  In  the  latter 
end  of  the  month,  Allan  and  I were  ordained — or- 
dained, I trust,  ministers  of  Christ. 

“ Ashley,”  he  said,  “ we  have  started  on  our 
course  together,  it  may  be  that  we  shall  not  con- 
tinue it  so,  but  while  we  serve  Christ  on  earth  let 
our  light  shine  before  men.” 

The  following  Sabbath  he  preached  his  sermon 
in  our  parish  church,  on  the  words,  “ Necessity  is 
laid  upon  me — Yea,  wo  is  unto  me,  if  I preach 
not  the  Gospel.”  I need  not  say  that  there  was 
an  attentive  audience,  for  you  know  the  feelings  of 
the  neighbourhood  towards  him.  Ruthven’s  seat 
was  conspicuous,  and  there  every  eye  that  could 
be  attracted  from  the  young  preacher  was  directed ; 
but  his  face,  except  when  he  withdrew  his  hand 
for  a moment  to  catch  one  look  at  his  son,  was 
concealed.  Old  Falconer,  leaning  over  the  side  of 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


103 


the  seat,  never  removed  his  dim  eve  from  his  belov- 
ed grandson. 

Of  Allan’s  sermon  I need  say  nothing ; but  as 
I passed  through  the  church-yard,  and  heard  the 
remarks  of  the  congregation,  I feared  that  I myself 
was  giving  too  much  honour  to  the  creature.  As 
I was  not  .to  enter  on  the  duties  of  my  calling  for 
some  little  time,  I looked  forward  to  enjoy  Allan’s 
ministry  in  the  interim  : going,  however,  as  was 
my  custom  on  Saturday  morning,  to  the  Lodge,  to 
read  and  search  the  Scriptures  together,  1 heard 
he  had  been  taken  ill  the  preceding  night,  and 
was  still  confined  to  his  bed.  I went  directly  to 
his  room,  hoping  that  it  was  but  a slight  attack  ; 
the  physician  and  Ruthven  were  there,  and  one 
glance  from  them  to  their  patient,  convinced  me 
there  was  danger.  When  they  were  gone,  I drew 
near  to  make  enquiries  from  himself. 

“ 4h  ! m friend,”  he  said,  “ the  time  is  come. 
Methinks  I am  drawing  near  the  banks  of  that 
Jordan  I have  looked  forward  to.” 

Dear  Allan,  do  not  think  so  ; I trust  this  sick- 
ness is  not  unto  death.” 

Ashley,  it  is  because  you  wish  to  keep  me 
here  you  think  so ; yet  why  wish  it  ? It  is  far 
better  to  depart  and  be  with  Jesus.” 

I now  took  up  my  abode  entirely  at  the  Lodge, 
determined  that  his  recovery  or  death  should  alone 
separate  me  from  the  friend  of  my  soul.  At  night, 
though  he  was  evidently  suffering  and  uneasy,  he 
would  not  admit  of  my  attendance,  hinting,  that 
when  the  sand  of  life  had  run  lower,  he  would  al- 
low me  to  sit  up  with  him,  but  now  he  would  not 
weary  me.  Early, on  the  Sabbath  morning  I enter- 
ed his  room  ; he  was  freer  from  pain  than  he  had 
been  through  the  night ; I drew  the  curtain  at  his 
lequest,  and  he  raised  himself  on  his  arm  to  look 


104 


A VISIT  TO 


out  at  the  fa'ir  scene  glowing  beneath  the  newly- 
risen  sunbeams. 

“ Last  Sabbath  morning,  Ashley,  we  went  to 
the  house  of  God  in  company. — Last  Sabbath  I 
was  permitted,  high  honour  for  one  like  me,  to 
declare  the  name  of  Jesus  : never  more  shall  I do 
so  ; there  is  no  temple  there — neither  shall  that 
light-spreading  orb  be  seen  there  ; a brighter  glory 
shall  enlighten  it.” 

“ We  have  spent  some  happy  Sabbaths,  Allan.” 

“ Most  happy,  Ashley  ; Ah  ! my  friend,  we  do 
not  rightly  know  the  worth  of  ordinances -until  we 
lose  them  ; when  confined  by  illness,  we  see  oth- 
ers moving  in  company  to  the  temple  of  the  Lord, 
or  when  in  far  other  lands  miss  the  things  that 
marked  the  day  the  Lord  has  made,  then  we  feel 
our  loss.” 

“ And  the  missionary,  Allan,  think  you  in  his 
field  of  distant  labour,  when  the  seventh  day’s  re- 
turn brings  to  his  recollection  the  sounds  he  heard 
in  his  native  land,  of  the  4 church-going  bell,  ring- 
ing its  summons  to  the  house  of  prayer  of  friends 
saying,  4 Come,  let  us  go  up  to  the  house  of  our 
God,’  think  you  he  then  casts  back  no  longing, 
lingering  look  ? 

“ He  feels  too,  doubtless,  the  loss  of  these 
things ; their  memory  is  entwined  in  his  heart 
with  all  that  is  dear  and  sacred  ; he  cannot  let  it 
part — but  the  God  of  ordinances  is  his,  a com- 
fort ordinances  cannot  yield  is,  I doubt  not,  bestow- 
ed on  him.”  > 

His  father  and  Doctor  M— - now  came  in  : 
when  they  were  going  away,  Allan  called  the  latter 
back,  and  drawing  him  closer,  whispered  his 
earnest  request  that  he  would  not  buoy  up  his 
poor  father  with  hopes  that  could  only  prove  falla- 
cious.” 


^\1Y  BIRTH-PLACE. 


105 


Doctor  M pressed  his  hand,  saying,  “ My 

dear  young  friend,  what  would  I give  to  be  able  to 
meet  death  with  your  composure.” 

“ And  who  enables  me  to  do  so,  Doctor  ?”  Said 
Allan  with  animation,  “ he  can  enable  you  too  : 
the  only  spell  that  bears  me  up,  is  trust  in  the 
Saviour  who  conquered  him  that  had  the  power  of 
death  ! Oh,  my  dear  Sir,  seek  Him  while  he  may 
be  found,  call  upon  Him  while  he  is  near  !” 

It  was  thus  our  dear  Allan  always  had  some 
word  of  exhortation  for  all  who  approached  him. 
He  remained  ill  and  feeble  through  the  week,  and 
our  hopes,  occasionally  revived,  as  often  sunk. 
Colonel  Ruthven  seemed  to  envy  me  the  perform- 
ance of  those  little  attentions  so  grateful  to  the 
sick,  and  from  which  he  was  disabled  by  the 
loss  of  his  arm  ; finding  it  sometimes  impossible 
to  control  his  feelings,  he  was  often  obliged  to 
absent  himself  from  the  room,  lest  he  should 
distress  his  son  : whenever  Allan  was  speaking  in 
his  accustomed  way  of  death,  and  his  feelings  re- 
specting it,  he  generally  changed  the  subject,  un- 
willing to  pain  his  father  ; but  on  Friday,  whether 
he  thought  his  dissolution  now  near,  or  felt  that  it 
was  not  right  to  shun  any  thing  that  might  be 
useful,  he  continued  the  subject  he  was  upon. 

“ Some  very  eminent  Christians  have,  I know, 
felt  a dread  of  this  last  enemy,  the  grave,  the 
shroud,  the  mingling  with  the  cold  silent  clay,  the 
parting  struggle  ; these  are  dreary  images — But 
when  we  think  that  the  same  moment  when  that 
parting  gasp  dismisses  the  spirit,  the  body  that 
enshrined  it  is  nought ; that  it  alone,  capable  of 
feeling,  suffering,  enjoying,  enters  into  blessedness ; 
these  things  are  nothing.  That  Jesus  passed  the 
gates  of  death,  and  because  He  liveth  we  shall  live 
also  ; this  ought  to  be  an  anchor  of  confidence  to 


106 


A VISIT  TO 


the  soul.  I remember  once  speaking  on  the  sub» 

ject  to  B . Dear  B!”  (he  suddenly  exclaimed, 

partly  forgetting  the  present  in  retrospect  of  the 

past,)  ‘ Dear,  dear  B ! Ashley,  1 shall  see 

him  no  more  on  earth ; tell  him — tell  him — he  was 
not  forgotten — No  proud  boast  have  I to  make  of 
dying  as  I have  lived— but  tell  him,  though  weak 
and  unworthy,  I trust  to  my  latest  breath  to  have 
strength  to  cling  to  Christ — say,  that  the  cross 
was  all  my  glory — ail  my  trust — that  through  the 
victory  gained  on  it  I hope  to  conquer  death.” 

“ Oh  ! Allan,  my  son,  my  son!”  cried  Ruthven, 
unable  to  contain  his  emotions  longer  ; and  he  fell 
on  his  knees  by  the  bed-side,  and  buried  his  face  on 
the  coverlet. 

Allan  seemed  oppressed  almost  to  suffocation  ; 
he  raised  his  meek  eyes  to  heaven,  as  if  to  gain 
strength  to  speak  a word  in  season ; he  took  his 
father’s  hand,  which  was  stretched  despairingly 
over  the  bed  : “ My  father,  when  my  mother  died, 
my  boyish  prayer  was  made  for  you— you  knew 
not  then  the  God  who  smote  you— you  now  know 
the  rod,  and  who  hath  appointed  it ; it  is  not  for 
me  therefore,  to  say— submit.”  Ruthven  bent  his 
forehead  on  his  son’s  pale  hand  ; his  fears  fell 
on  it. 

After  a silence  as  impressive  as  affecting,  Allan 
said,  “ A few  short  years,  my  dearest  father,  will 
re-unite  us  all— think  of  that — -or  rather  think, 
that  though  I go  away,  Jesus  is  ever  with  you.” 

“ Oh ! I would,  I would  submit,”  murmured 
Ruthven.  The  hand  he  held  fell  from  Allan’s 
grasp  ; I thought  he  was  gone— Ruthven  cast  me 
such  a look  as  I shall  not  easily  forget ; I saw  he 
had  only  fainted,  he  soon  came  to  himself,  and  his 
father  wishing  him  to  repose,  left  him  to  my  care. 

During  the  next  day,  Saturday,  he  was  mostly 


MV  BIKTH-PLACE. 


107 

in  a kind  of  slumber,  that  flattered  poor  Ruthveu 
with  hopes  that  he  would  yet  do  well  : but  these 
slumbers  were  broken  half-hourly,  and  as  I never 
left  his  room,  I had  the  privilege  of  seeing  the 
state  his  mind  was  in ; he  generally  awoke  from 
them  repeating  some  text  of  holy  writ:  he  had 
many  a message  to  leave  for  his  friends ; as  a per- 
son leaving  home  for  a long  period,  from  time  to 
time,  remembers  some  other  direction,  so  he  re- 
peated them  to  me. 

44  My  poor  children,  Ashley,  bid  them  follow  on 
to  know  the  Lord.” 

Again,  “ tell  our  young  friend  S , that  it 

was  not  the  recollection  of  a well-spent  life  sup- 
ported rne  through  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow 
ol  death ; it  was  my  Saviour's  death  that  supported 
and  cheered  rne  ; it  w as  not  with  the  flimsy  robe 
of  my  ow  n righteousness  I thought  to  stand  before 
my  Judge,  but  with  one  blood-bought  by  Him.”,., 

Mr.  Falconer  coming  in  when  he  w as  labouring 
under  much  oppression  and  uneasiness,  exclaimed 
in  his  .usual  manner,  “ The  scion  is  cut  down,  and 
the  withered,  leafless  tree  is  left.” 

M hen  a little  recovered,  Allan  said,  “ The  scion 
is  about  to  be  transplanted,  dear  grandfather,  to  a 
better,  purer  clime.  Oh  ! that  the  tree  long  kept 
in  the  ground,  may  be  found  of  the  planting  of  the 
Lord,  one  of  those  “ trees  of  righteousness  by  which 
he  shall  be  glorified.” 

After  this,  Allan  became  more  lively,  he  spoke 
without  much  effort  on  various  subjects,  but  alw  ays 
arae  back  soon  to  the  one.  In  the  evening,  Mr. 
Falconer,  Ruthven  and  myself,  were  sitting  round 
his  bed : he  looked  at  us  with  his  usual  affection- 
ate smile;  it  soon  passed  away,  and  he  turned  aside 
his  face  ; I guessed  what  passed  in  his  mind,  he 
iound,  in  saying,  ‘ farewell,1  one  parting  pang. 


108 


-"A  V1S-T  TO 


But.  even  this' was  soon  over,  arid  he  turned  to  us 
again,  saying,  “ It  is  strange  that  any  person  could 
suppose,  that  in  heaven  we  do  not  know  our  friends  ; 
for  my  part,  1 love  to  think  I shall  meet  there  those 
who  have  gone  before,  arid  those,  who,  through 
grace,  shall  follow  alter  me.” 

When  I was  again  left  at  home  with  him,  Mrs, 
Macdonald  came  to  take  perhaps  her  last  leave,  to 
bid  him,  it  might  be,  an  endless  good-night. ! On 
seeing  the  alteration  that  had  taken  place  in  him, 
she  burst  into  tears;  he  wras  affected,  but  taking 
her  hand,  said  in  a gentle  voice,  “ Dearest  Madam, 
weep  not  for  me”  He  then  sweetly  expressed  his 
obligation  to  her  for  all  her  kindness,  saying, 
“ The  Lord  reward  you  for  all  the  kindness  you 
have  sfiown  his  unworthy  .servant— reward  you  in 
the  happiness  of  those  you  love ;”  he  paused— 
then,  as  if  every  earthly  feeling  that  once  gave  him 
pain  was  removed,  lie  added,  “ When  you  see 
Ethie,  tell  her  I remembered  her  in  prayer  ; she 
once  seemed  to  know  the  grace  of  our  Lord  Jesus. 
Oil  1 I trust  it  was  not  only  in  seeming — Warn 
her,  dear  Madam,  warn  her  to  beware  of  the  world, 
of  letting  earth  or  earthly  objects  possess  her  heart. 
Oh  ! I have  felt,  I do  feel  much  for  her, — I think 
at  this  moment  earthly  feelings  are  so  far  laid  aside 
— but  no — this  is  now  impossible — tell  her  I hope 
to  meet  her  in  heaven.” 

Mrs.  Macdonald  did  not  speak,  but  her  bursting 
sobs  spoke  for  her.  When  she  left  the  room,  Al- 
lan, who  seemed  quite  exhausted,  said,  “ Now  all 
is  over,  I have  nothing  to  do  but  wait  for  my  God.” 
In  the  course  of  the  night,  when  I brought  him  a 
drink,  he  asked  me  what  night  it  was — “ Saturday,” 
he  repeated  after  me ; “ then  my  last  week  is  spent; 
the  morrow,  oh ! the  morrow !”  He  clasped  his 
handsj,  and  lay  some  time  in  prayer : hearing  him 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


109 


lowly  repeat  my  name,  I stole  to  his  bed,  for  from 
the  faintness  of  his  voice,  I thought  it  might  be  in 
sleep. 

“ Is  that  Ashley  ?”  he  asked. 

“ It  is,  my  friend.” 

“ Dearest  Ashley,  I wanted  to  thank  you,” — 
but  I need  not  repeat  this ; Allan’s  heart  was 
ever  alive  to  gratitude,  ever  anxious  to  find  or 
make  cause  to  express  it — 44  Farewell,  Ashley,” 
he  said,  “ farewell,  my  friend,  until  we  meet  in 
glory.” 

The  next  time  I went  to  him  he  appeared  almost 
unable  to  speak,  but  in  answer  to  my  enquiries, 
replied  by  tfle  expressive  words,  44  Peace — -all  is 
peace.” 

Ruthven  had  made  me  promise  against  Allan’s 
wish,  that  I would  call  him  if  he  was  near  his  end : 
hearing  his  low  deep  breathing,  I drew  near  and 
leaned  over  him  ; he  unclosed  his  eye  ; it  was  gla- 
zed and  darkening—4  Allan,  dear  Allan” — He 
moved  his  lips,  I bent  lower  to  catch  his  words. 

44  My  Saviour  is  with  me  still — Ashley,  farewell 
—tell  my  father” 

Supposing  he  wished  to  leave  a parting  message 
for  his  father,  I concluded  his  hour  was  come,  and 
hastened  to  call  Ruthven.  Even  in  the  moment 
that  elapsed  before  I again  stood  by  the  bed,  his 
face  was  changed,  death  was  marked  in  all  its  lin- 
eaments— he  fixed  his  eye  upon  me,  and  once 
more  moved  his  lips — I raised  his  head  on  my  arm, 
and  with  the  motion,  I believe  his  spirit  fled ! 
Allan,  my  guide,  my  counsellor,  my  own  familiar 
friend  was  gone,  and  I had  not  time  to  express  one 
plaint  of  sorrow,  to  give  vent  to  the  emotions  that 
swelled  my  breast.  I heard  his  father’s  steps  along 
the  passage,  and  fearing  to  give  him  an  additional 
pang,  I gently  laid  down  the  head  I sustained  en 


A VISIT  TO 


11 0 

the  pillow,  arid  quickly  crossing  the  room,  met 
him  at  the  door. 

“ How  is  my  son  V’ 

X laid  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  turning 
with  him  into  the  passage,  and  speaking  slowly,  so 
as  to  gain  time  for  drawing  him  farther  from  the 
door,  X said,  “ You  need  not,  dear  Sir,  now  come 
in,  my  calling  you  was  useless— Allan  sleeps/’ 
He -turned  me  a fearful  glance,  that  seemed  to  de- 
mand whether  it  was  a sleep  from  which  he  might 
awake.  X believe  he  felt  my  hand  tremble  ; nei- 
ther of  us  had  taken  a light ; but  the  moon  shining 
bright  through  a window  near  us,  showed  him  my 
agitated  countenance— he  leaned  his  back  to  the 
wall,  asking,  as  if  he  dreaded  to  hear  the  answTei\ 

“ Is  he— is  he— gone  V* 

“ Yes,  my  dear  Sir,  Allan  is  gone  to  his  rest.” 

Rutnven  bowed  his  head — But  oh  ! the  expres- 
sion oi  that  countenance,  increased  perhaps  by  the 
pale  light  that  revealed  it,  will  long  be  remember- 
ed. It  seemed  as  if,  while  the  iron  entered  into 
his  very  soul,  while  his  every  earthly  joy  and  hope 
fell  prostrate,  he  tried  to  say,  he  did  say,  “ It  is 
the  Lord,”  X brought  him  to  his  own  room ; I left 
him  there  without  a witness  but  One  on  High, 
whose  ear  is  ever  open,  whose  pitying  eye  is  ever 
on  .us,  and  telling  him  X would  remain  in 
the  room  I had  left,  X hurried  back.  I brought 
over  the  light,  and  took  another  look,  °as 
if  to  assure  myself  Allan  was  gone— No  more  was 
needed— X closed  the  curtain  and  sat  down  to 
watch  by  the  corpse  of  him  that  was  my  friend. 

I trust  that  it  was  not  an  unprofitable  night  to  mv 
soul. 

When  the  first  grey  light  appeared,  X opened 
the  shutters,  and  sat  watching  its  progress ; the 
mists,  of  night  were  dispersing,  the  moon  was  re- 
firing,  the  sun  was  coming  forth  by  degrees,,  until 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


Ill 


a deep  crimson  flush  over  the  sky  announced  its 
approach,  and  soon  it  was  up  in  its  brightness  ; the 
wave  beneath  its  glow  seemed  of  burnished  gold — 
It  ushered  in  the  Sabbath  morn,  the  morn  that 
Allan  loved.  Oh!  on  such  a morn,  how  would  his 
eye  be  up  unto  the  heavens,  and  his  prayer  unto 
the  God  of  his  life.  Wliile  I looked  out  at  the 
fair  new  morn,  and  thought  how  often  I had  en- 
joyed this  fresh  hour  of  prime  with  him  ; thought 
of  him  living,  moving,  glowing  with  ardour,  affec- 
tion, love  ; then  turned  to  the  bed,  that  held  him 
cold,  inanimate,  insensible, — a heavy  weight  op- 
pressed my  bosom,  a desolate  aching  feeling  hung 
over  me  ; but  when  X thought,  fair  was  the  Sab- 
bath that  had  dawned  upon  his  soul,  brilliant  the 
sun  in  whose  beams  he  now  rejoiced,  a calm  and 
holy  feeling  took  its  place.  Yes,  Allan,  I mental- 
ly said,  those  who  walk  in  the  light  of  God’s  coun- 
tenance upon  earth,  enjoy  but  a partially  obscured 
glimpse  of  a sun  that  has  risen  on  you  for  ever. 

When  it  was  perfect  day,  I rose  to  take  another 
view  of  all  that  remaned  of  what  had  been  my 
dearest  bosom  friend  ; drawing  back  the  curtain, 
the  bright  sun-beam  fell  over  his  face  ; it  was 
mild,  composed,  it  is  true,  in  death,  but  still  sweet; 
an  expression  of  languor  and  suffering  was  upon 
it ; but  so  partially  had  death  as  yet  fixed  its  soul- 
harrowing  characters  on  that  sweet  and  holy  coun- 
tenance, one  might  suppose  him  in  a sweet  sleep. 

I bent  over  him  until  I found  myself  again  unman- 
ned, until  I felt — but  why  should  I thus  dwell  on 
my  own  feelings  ? forgive  me,  B — — , you  know 
there  are  not  many  to  whom  I can  impart  them. 

Allan’s  relatives  now  claimed  my  care ; to 
them  I hastened  : Ruthven  seemed  composed,  and 
asked  me  to  go  to  Mr.  Falconer  ; but  hardly  had 
X left  the  room,  till  he  hastened  to  Allan’s  cham- 


112  A VISIT  To 

ber:  for  two  full  hours  the  door  was  fastened  on 
him  and  the  corpse  of  his  beloved  son.  What  pass- 
ed between  his  God  and  him,  I know  not,  but 
though  his  soul  had  drank  deep  of  sorrow,  no  im- 
patient, no  angry  murmur  ever  passed  his  lips. 

A short  time  alter,  we  committed  all  that  was 
earthly  in  our  beloved  Allan  to  its  kindred  dust. 

He  had  expressed  to  me  a wish  which  he  said  he 
thought  was  toolish,  but  still  he  wished  to  be  laid 
in  the  old  burial  ground,  endeared  to  both  our  re- 
membrances, I think  I may  say,  by  a long  train  of 
associations. 

Early  on  a fine  autumnal  morning,  this  spot 
presented  a scene  at  once  solemn,  affecting,  and 
.interesting  ; the  poor  whom  he  had  relieved,  the 
ignorant  whom  he  had  instructed,  the  comfortless 
whom  he  had  consoled  ; these  formed  principally 
the  groups  that  were  scattered  through  it.  There 
garrulous  age  extolled  the  merits  of  him  who  had 
truly  been  the  poor  man’s  friend  ; in  another  part, 
a circle  of  children  spoke  of  him  who  had  ever 
acted  towards  them  in  compliance  with  his  Lord’s 
desire  ; and  not  only  suffered  them  to  come,  but 
laboured  to  bring  them  unto  Jesus  : they  spoke  of 
his  kindness,  gentleness,  love  ; and  wondered  how 
so  good,  so  young  a person  should  die.  Nor  were 
all  thus  engaged  : here  and  there  a single  one  sat 
solitary  and  silent,  showing  only,  by  occasionally 
dashing  a tear  away,  that  they  were  not  unconcern- 
ed spectators.  These  were  they  whom  Allan, 
though  some  of  their  heads  were  silvered  by  time, 
could  call  his  sons  and  daughters  in  the  Gospel  : ; 

they  felt  that  now  their  master  was  taken  from 
their  head.  But  a mournful  sight  aroused  them 
all.  From  the  grove  behind  the  Lodge,  a small 
party  issued  : the  remains  of  Allan  Ruthven  were 
carried  in  the  midst : his  father,  with  a firm  and 


MV  BIRTH-PLACE. 


113 

composed  air,  walked  on  one  side  : his  eye  was 
downcast,  and  unless  it  might  have  showed  the 
feelings  of  his  breast,  the  death-like  paleness  of 
his  face  alone  gave  intimation  of  them.  On  the 
other  side,  the  venerable  grandfather  supported  his 
tottering  steps  on  my  arm,  sometimes  groaning 
deeply,  sometimes  lifting  his  eyes  to  heaven,  or 
uttering  some  expression  of  grief  and  surprise  that 
he  should  follow  his  grandson  to  the  grave  ! The 
intimate  friends  and  servants  were  all  that  follow- 
ed, Allan  and  his  father  wishing  that  it  might  be 
private.  We  were  surprised  to  see  the  concourse 
which  had  assembled  in  the  church-yard.  I stood 
beside  Allan’s  grave ; I heard  the  dust  rattle  on 
his  cott : I felt  it — what  must  his  father  have  felt  ? 
Truly,  each  sound  seemed  to  deaden  me  more  to 
the  w<#ld,  to  loosen  the  cords  that  bound  rne  to 
earth, 

I saw  Ruthven’s  fine  martial  figure,  now  shrunk 
with  suffering,  tremble  at  the  sound  ! The  hand 
that  held  the  handkerchief  to  his  face,  appeared 
incapable  of  doing  its  office : he  held  up  his  hat 
before  his  eyes,  and  in  the  act  I caught  a glimpse 
of  his  countenance  : its  strong  workings,  its  ex- 
pression of  agony,  he  shrunk  from  revealing,  wrung 
my  very  soul.  Old  Falconer  was  leaning  upon 
his  stick,  his  silver  hair  hanging  down  his  sunken 
cheeks,  and  his  tears  flowing  without  restraint  or 
concealment.  I went  to  Ruthven,  drew  his  arm 
within  mine,  and  without  speaking,  led  him  to  a 
seat  at  a little  distance.  We  sat  here  till  the  grave 
was  filled,  and  then  a low,  sweet  strain  broke  out : 
it  came  from  Allan’s  children,  and  the  words  they 
sung  were  written  by  himself  in  his  earlier  days, 
for  another  person. 

l # 


114 


A VISIT  TO 


Cbr  friend  is  lost,  our  Brother  flown, 

He  is  hid  from  our  sight  for  ever ; 

To  the  dark  cold  tomb  he’s  gone, 

And  we  shall  see  him  never. 

The  cold  grave  stone  is  o’er  his  head, 

In  silence  he  is  sleeping, 

Now  in  his  damp  and  narrow  bed 
An  endless  night  he’s  keeping. 

But  hark ! from  yonder  blissful  plains, 

What  raptur’d  notes  are  breaking, 

Midst  seraph  bands,  its  sweetest  strains 
Another  harp  is  waking. 

And  see  around  Emmanuel’s  throne 
Another  spirit  bowing, 

Low  at  his  feet  it  casts  its  crown, 

With  love  and  rapture  glowing. 

’Tis  he  w hose  body  here  is  laid, 

Who  now  these  joys  is  sharing ; 

From  earth  and  eai  th’s  remembrance  freed, 

A crown  of  glory  wearing, 

His  body  rests  in  hope  to  rise 
When  the  glad  trump  is  waking; 

His  soul  with  Jesus  in  the  skies. 

Of  endless  joys  partaking. 

When  it  died  away,  Ruthven  rose.  He  looked 
calm,  and  was  resigned.  Mr.  Falconer  raised  his 
head  from  the  top  of  the  stick  on  which  he  rested 
it : they  each  took  the  arm  I offered,  and  we  walk- 
ed back  to  the  house  : not  a word  was  spoken.  f 
Allan  had  begged  me  to  endeavour  to  prevail 
on  his  father,  when  he  was  gone,  to  leave  a place 
where  every  spot  must  remind  him  he  had  had  a 
son.  He  said  he  thought  if  he  would  consent,  his 
grandfather  would  go  too  for  his  sake.  I soon 
saw,  that  as  Allan  feared,  this  place  was  breaking 
Ruthven’s  heart.  While  the  corpse  even  of  his  son 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


115 


remained  in  the  house,  he  did  not  seem  to  awake 
to  the  sense  of  his  loss ; but  when  he  found  the 
room,  lately  tenanted,  empty,  the  favoured  resorts 
solitary,  the  accustomed  avocations  suspended, 
then  a blank,  desolate  feeling  stole  over  him.  He 
would  stand  in  Allan’s  study  and  bed-room,  and 
look  round  with  an  air  of  abstracted  sorrow  on 
every  object : he  would  start  when  I sometimes 
answered  a question,  as  if  he  expected  to  hear 
another  voice.  I feared,  though  I saw  Christian 
resignation  mingled  with  his  sorrow,  that  still  it 
would  draw  him  sooner  to  the  grave.  At  last  I 
proposed  to  him  to  leave  the  Lodge.  He  looked  at 
me  for  a moment,  then  turning  away  his  head,  said, 
“ Ashley,  I thank  you,  but  no  ; where  he  died,  I 
will  die,  and  there  will  I be  buried.” 

And  now,  my  dear  B. , I have  fulfilled  my 

promise,  and  given  you  an  imperfect  account,  it  is 
true,  but  in  the  outlines  faithful,  of  the  death  of 
my  friend — the  friend  to  whom  my  soul  was  knit 
in  bonds  never  to  be  disunited.  Allan  sometimes 
asked  me,  could  friendship  be  so  close  among  men 
who  lived  after  the  course  of  this  world  ? I know 
among  some  of  them,  frendship  can,  and  does  ex- 
ist : nay,  when  my  own  soul  was  yet  unregenerate, 
I loved  Allan  Ruthven,  but  not  as  I afterwards 
did.  No  ; the  ties  of  Christian  love  are  the  clos- 
est, the  most  durable,  they  cannot  be  rent  asunder 
even  by  death.  I have  now  none  to  supply  his 
place,  no  objects  to  claim  the  first  affections  of 
my  heart  that  might  be  given  to  earth,  and  I feel 
the  void — but  be  Allan’s  God,  my  God,  his  friend, 
my  friend,  then  shall  I be  happy. 

Allan,  my  friend,  my  guide,  my  soul  could  even 
now  take  up  a lamentation  for  you,  and  say,  “ I 
am  distressed  for  thee,  my  brother  ; very  pleasant 
wast  thou  unto  me.?’ 


116 


A VISIT  TO 


Here,  my' dear  C ends  my  account  of  a 

life  unknown  to  fame,  unnoticed  in  the  annals  of  j 
the  great,  but  well  pleasing  to  Him  to  whose  ser- 
vice it  was  dedicated.  On  the  rolls  of  fame  the 
name  of  Allan  Ruthven  was  not  inscribed,  but  far 
higher,  though  less  sought  for  honour,  it  was  en- 
tered in  the  Lamb’s  book  of  life. 

On  my  return  to  this  country,  I found  the 
packet  Ashley  had  left  for  me ; truly  the  conclud- 
ing sentence  I could  have  joined  in,  for  I too  was 
distressed  for  Allan. 

Many  changes  had  taken  place  even  in  the 
short  time  that  I had  been  absent,  I had  no  longer 
motives  for  returning  to  my  native  place ; it  was 
not,  as  you  are  aware,  until  business  called  me 
into  its  vicinity,  that  I came  on  your  worthy  fa- 
ther’s invitation  to  visit  my  birth-place.  Of  the 
rest  of  my  friends,  little  remains  to  be  said — Allan’s 
tomb  informed  me  of  some  of  them ; for  casting 
down  my  eye  from  that  which  at  first  absorbed 
every  faculty,  I saw  beneath  the  simple  inscription, 

“ Here  lies  the  body  of  the  Rev.  Allan  Ruthven, 
aged  23  the  addition  also  of  “ Lieutenant-Colo- 
nel Ruthven,  who  died  the  1st  of  January,  18 — 
and  underneath,  “ Here  lies  the  body  of  George 
Allan  Falconer,  who  on  the  tenth  of  June,  in  the 
same  year,  followed  his  son-in-law  and  grandson  to 
the  grave,  trusting  in  Him  through  whom  they  con- 
quered death.’3 

The  tale  of  their  tombstone  concludes  by  these 
lines  : u The  ashes  of  her,  who  by  training  up  her 
son  in  the  way  he  should  go,  was  the  means  of 
bringing  him,  and  through  him,  her  husband  and 
father,  to  the  knowledge  of  the  truth  as  it  is  in 
Jesus,  rest  not  beneath  this  stone,  a foreign  land 
contains  them— but  when  from  the  four  winds  of 
heaven  the  angel  of  the  Lord  shall  gather  his  re- 


MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 


117 


deemed,  then  shall  he  also  appear  with  them  in 
glory.” 

I saw  Ashley’s  hand  in  this  inscription,  but  I 
found  him  not.  I came  a stranger  to  my  native 
vale : the  houses  of  my  friends,  strangers  inhabited, 
or  they  were  desolate,  not  having  an  inhabitant! 
Allan  Ruthven,  Falconer,  are  gone  : Ashley 
treads  a distant  land.  It  seems  that  Allan,  like 
the  prophet  of  old,  left  his  spirit  with  his  friend. 
From  him,  Ashley  learned  to  love  the  missionary 
cause.  His  death  loosened  him  from  a world  he 
was  too  much  bound  to  before.  Studying  the 
more  lovely  parts  of  Allan’s  character,  he  drew 
them  into  his  own,  and  practised  those  things  for 
which  he  was  so  conspicuous,  and  which  should 
adorn  the  missionary.  He  had  no  near  relatives  ; 
he  was  at  liberty  to  act  as  his  dear  departed  friend 
desired,  but  could  not,  so  he  went  a messenger  of 
glad  tidings  to  the  Gentiles,  and  so  far  away  from 
his  home,  and  his  native  country,  he  labours  among 
the  heathen,  desiring,  it  is  true,  a great  reward, 
even  to  have  souls  for  his  hire. 

Ethie’s  wishes  were  gratified,  she  had  seen  the 
world,  the  object  of  her  ambition — she  had  known 
it,  and  she  was  disappointed.  Some  time  after  the 
death  of  those  who  had  been  her  friends,  Mrs. 
Macdonald’s  declining  health  brought  her  to  her 
native  vale,  to  try  to  prevail  on  her  to  go  to  live 
with  her  ; with  what  feelings  she  returned  to  the 
cottage  is  not  for  me  to  say,  but  I have  heard  she 
once  sat  on  the  grave  of  her  friends,  and  dropped 
a tear  upon  it.  Mrs.  Macdonald  quitted  the  cot- 
tage with  her,  and  I believe  her  declining  years 
were  soothed  by  her  attentions,  her  broken  heart 
consoled  by  seeing  her  act  unblameably  in  life,  as 
a wife,  a mother,  a friend. 

And  now,  C , farewell ; you  will  perhaps 

L* 


118  A VISIT  TO  MY  BIRTH-PLACE. 

think  your  apprehension  correct,  and  that  you  did 
indeed  draw  something  like  a sermon  on  your 
head,  when  you  jestingly  asked  for  the  result  of  my 
meditations  ; but  if  I ha  ve  been  serious,  remember 
my  subject  has  been  often  so.  The  recollections 
a visit  to  my  birth-place  and  to  Allan’s  tomb  have 
furnished,  are  before  you  ; may  they  be  useful  to 
you,  in  leading  you  early  to  choose  the  good  and 
refuse  the  evil,  so  that,  if  like  him,  you  are  called 
to  an  early  grave,  or  descend  there  adorned  with 
that  hoary  head,  which  if  found  in  the  way  of 
righteousness  is  a crown  of  glory,  you  shall  like 
him  be  happy  for  ever. 


B- 


COOL  OF  THE  DAY. 


— «4»— 


I had  read,  in  my  morning  studies,  the  third 
chapter  of  Genesis,  which  so*  affectingly  relates 
the  history  of  our  first  parents’  fall.  All  day  the 
heat  was  most  oppressive,  and  my  weakness  so 
great,  that  I could  with  difficulty  keep  myself 
from  fainting  repeatedly.  I lay  on  a sofa  in  the 
parlour  of  our  cottage,  the  windows  of  which 
look  towards  a green  meadow.  Two  fine  elms 
overshadow  that  part  of  the  house  which  I oc- 
cupy. Beyond  the  meadow  is  the  little  river, 
bordered  by  a row  of  tall  English  poplars  ; and 
across  it,  on  one  side,  stands  the  little  village 
church  and  the  good  minister’s  house.  All  this 
day,  though  my  body  was  so  weak,  my  mind  was, 
thanks  be  to  God,  remarkably  peaceful.  I seemed 
to  have  no  will  but  my  Father’s  will,  and  no  hope 
but  that  of  an  abundant  entrance  into  the  king- 
dom of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ . I repeated  over 
and  over  again  to  myself  the  different  stanzas  of 
that  beautiful  hymn,  beginning — 

“ When  languor  and  disease  invade 
This  trembling  house  of  clay, 

*Tis  sweet  to  look  beyond  the  cage, 

And  long  to  soar  away.” 


120 


THE  COOL  OP  THE  DAY. 


My  extreme  bodily  weakness,  I suppose,  dis- 
qualified me  from  even  thinking  of  active  duty  here 
on  earth ; for,  for  the  first  time  since  my  return  to 
jjngland,  I was  not  visited  by  any  painful  and  op- 
pressive thoughts  of  the  work  I had  resigned  to 
other  hands  when  my  Master  was  pleased  to  call 
me  away.  In  the  evening,  however,  as  the  air 
began  to  freshen,  and  the  sun  to  descend  below 
the  distant  hill,  I revived,  and  crawled  out  to  enjoy 
for  a few  minutes  the  breeze  of  evening  in  my  fa- 
vourite walk  by  the  river  side.  I sat  down  on  the 
bench,  under  one  of  the  spreading  poplars  by  the 
water’s  edge.  There  thought  seemed  to  return 
again,  and  my  mind  was  once  more  busy  with  the 
contemplation  of  things  done  upon  earth,  still, 
however,  in  close  connexion  with  a future  and 
eternal  state.  I saw  the  labourers  returning  tow- 
ards their  homes  : one  by  one  the  waggons  passed 
by  me  from  the  neighbouring  hay-fields  with  their 
last  loads : the  idle  loungers,  too,  in  the  boats  on 
the  stream,  began  to  think  of  moving  homewards  : 
and,  feeling  the  approach  of  the  dews  of  night,  I 
thought  it  prudent  to  retire  also.  To  men  in  health 
mine  would  have  seemed  but  a melancholy  day’s 
work  ; but  in  my  evening  prayer  I could  thank 
God  for  many 

“ Springs  of  consolation  from  above  ; 

Secret  refreshings,  that  repair’d 

My  failing  strength,  and  fainting  spirits  upheld.” 

Certain  it  is,  that  with  every  day’s  experience 
of  my  declining  powers  I feel  more  powerfully  the 
blessings  of  religion.  To  a dying  man,  these  must 
be,  in  a great  measure,  matters  of  personal  experi- 
ence. He  cannot  look  much  about  him  to  see 
what  Christianity  is  doing  for  others;  still  less  can 

* Toplady. 


THE  COOL  OF  THE  DAY. 


121 


he  find  ability  or  inclination  to  speculate  among 
the  externals  of  religion.  He  knows  that  he  be- 
lieves the  doctrine  of  divine  assistance  vouchsafed 
to  our  wants,  because  he  feels  prayer  to  be  his 
prime  blessing.  He  knows  it  is  his  duty,  even  to 
the  very  last  of  life,  to  worship  God  with  his  under - 
standing,  as  w'ell  as  with  his  heart ; therefore  his 
daily  endeavour  is  to  measure  his  prayers,  and  the 
general  character  of  his  pursuits,  by  the  spirit  of 
the  Scriptures,  and  to  guard  against  those  weak 
and  superstitious  feelings  to  which  a state  of  bodily 
weakness  often  leads  : but  while  he  guards  this 
point’  he  does  not  dread  giving  way  to  those  sooth- 
ing and  cheering  thoughts  which  spring  up  like 
some  refreshing  well  in  a dry  and  thirsty  land . 
He  can  call  himself  happy — happy  at  heart — in 
the  midst  of  suffering. 

But  I return.  On  the  evening  of  which  I speak, 
I was  unwilling  to  retire  to  rest.  My  nights  are 
more  trying  than  my  days,  and  I sat  up,  desirous 
of  keeping  off  the  evil  hour.  Gradually,  my 
thoughts  settled  upon  the  chapter  I had  read  that 
morning,  and  upon  one  verse  of  it  in  particular — 
And  they  heard  the  voice  of  the  Lord  God  ivalking 
in  the  garden  in  the  cool  of  the  day  : and  Adam 
and  his  wife  hid  themselves  from  the  presence  of 
the  Lord  God  among  the  trees  of  the  garden. 
From  reflections  upon  the  feelings  of  our  first  pa- 
rents on  this  memorable  evening,  I was  led  to 
consider  what  must  be  the  thoughts  of  many  of 
my  fellow-creatures  in  “ the  cool  of  the  day.” 
What  multitudes  are  there  who  pursue  their  vari- 
ous schemes  of  folly,  of  business,  of  pleasure,  and* 
it  may  be,  of  vice,  without  thinking  of  “ the  cool 
of  the  day  !”  Yet,  when  it  comes,  how  painful 
must  be  their  thoughts  ! how  little  can  they  - enjoy 
the  presence  of  their  Lord,  when  he  comes  to  their 


122 


THE  COOL  OF  THE  DAY. 


consciences,  &s  he  came  to  Adam  and  Eve,  in  the 
evening  hour  ! 

There  are  some  who  rise  but  with  the  purpose 
of  doing  evil : sin  is  in  all  their  schemes,  and 
they  know  it  is  so  : they  begin  the  day  deliberately 
with  it ; they  are  pursuing  guilty  pleasures  from 
morning  till  night.  To  them,  perhaps,  the  voice 
of  God  does  not  speak  in  “ the  cool  of  the  day 
their  consciences  are  hardened  ; they  scarcely  feel 
a pang  at  the  thought  of  breaking  his  law.  O 
what  a night  will  follow  such  a day  ! for  never  let 
it  be  forgotten,  that  if  the  evening  hour  has  no 
power  to  touch  them,  they  must  be  awakened  to 
misery  unutterable  when  the  night  of  death  comes. 
Then,  indeed,  will  they  hear  the  Lord  God’s  voice, 
and  tremble. 

There  are  others,  who  rise  in  the  morning  with 
no  plan,  no  principle  of  action,  no  particular  de- 
sire to  do  good  ; perhaps  no  wish  to  do  evil.  As 
they  thus  trust  life,  as  it  were,  to  accident,  they  of 
course,  make  no  preparation  for  the  day.  Look 
into  their  chambers  : you  do  not  behold  their  ado- 
rations ; you  do  not  hear  the  voice  of  pleading  for 
fresh  supplies  of  that  divine  grace,  which  the  Chris- 
tian prizes  more  than  his  necessary  food.  They 
neither  foresee  nor  provide  for  the  spiritual  trials  of 
the  day.  When  temptation  overtakes  them,  they 
fall  an  easy  prey  to  its  allurements  ; they  fall,  per- 
haps, far  below  their  original  ideas  or  intentions  of 
wrong.  In  “ the  cool  of  the  day”  they  will  mourn 
their  blindness. 

There  are  others  who  stand  high  in  their  own 
opinions,  who  rise  in  the  morning  well  satisfied 
with  themselves,  and  would  on  no  account  miss 
their  prayers  : for  it  is  a part  of  their  righteous- 
ness to  pray  ; they  would  not  be  complete,  in  their 
own  opinion,  without  it : yet  as  to  hungering  and 


THE  COOL  OF  THE  DAY. 


123 


thirsting,  seeking  and  longing,  for  the  help  of  the 
Lord,  tlfey  know  not  what  it  means.  They  do  not 
feel  poor,  'and  afflicted,  and  needy;  they  only  want 
to  prove  that  in  all  things  they  obey  the  Lord  their 
God.  As  the  proudest  spirits  feel  most  acutely  the 
disgrace  of  a fall,  it  is  to  be  expected  that  their 
mistakes  and  omissions,  if  not  wilful  transgressions, 
will  painfully  affect  their  souls  in  “ the  cool  of  the 
day.” 

There  are  others,  who  leave  their  beds  with  the 
rising  sun,  ready  and  vigorous  in  the  service  of 
their  Maker.  How  beautiful  is  their  opening 
morning ! how  fervent,  how  warm,  how  earnest, 
their  prayers ! They  want  no  repeated  admoni- 
tions to  awaken  up  and  seek  the  Lord  in  his  holy 
temple.  His  service  is  delightful  to  their  souls. 
Poor  though  they  may  be,  and  needy,  the  flame  of 
hope  is  lighted  up  within  them,  and  they  believe  it 
never  will  be  overshadowed  by  this  world’s  troubles 
Earth  does  not  present  a more  delightful  spectacle 
than  the  morning  sacrifices  of  a fervent  and  pious 
mind.  But  Oh ! how  often  is  human  confidence 
rebuked,  and  taught  not  to  rely  on  these  early  ap- 
pearances ! The  tumults  of  the  day  come  on; 
the  man  forgets  his  morning  resolutions;  the  fer- 
vour of  piety  is  checked  by  the  cold  spirit  of  the 
world  By  and  by,  a fierce  temptation  comes : all 
all  is  forgotten.  O what  an  hour  will  “ the  cool  of 
the  day”  be  to  such  a one  ! when  he  hears  in  his 
soul  the  voice  of  the  Lord  God—  not  speaking  to 
him,  as  in  the  morning,  with  mild  complacency, 
but  rebuking,  with  holy  sternness,  his  weakness 
his  fickleness ; reminding  him  of  the  manner  in 
which  he  promised,  like  Peter,  though  all  men 
should  forsake  thee,  yet  will  not  I for  sake  thee  ! 
there  are  many  degrees  of  insincerity ; and 
though  we  cannot,  in  strict  propriety  of  language, 


124 


THE  COOL  OF  THE  BAY. 


call  him  sincere  in  his  desires  after  holiness,  whose 
goodness  is  thus  proved  to  be  as  the  early  dew 
that  soon  passeth  away%  we  are  bound  to  draw  a 
broad  line  of  distinction  between  him  who  lias 
sought  the  Lord,  and  felt,  in  a degree,  the  power 
and  influence  of  religion,  and  him  who  never  gave 
it  any  portion  of  his  serious  and  most  earnest 
thoughts.  In  proportion  as  a man  has  experienced 
these  desires  after  a better  state,  in  proportion  as 
he  has  longed  to  know  the  Lord  more  and  serve 
him  better,  in  that  proportion  will  be  his  bitter 
regrets,  if,  in  “ the  cool  of  the  day/’  conscience 
brings  him  a heavy  tale  of  departures  from  the 
spirit  which  animated  him  in  the  morning.  The 
probability  is,  either  that  some  darling  sin  was  se- 
cretly encouraged  at  that  better  time,  or  that  he 
prided  himself  on  his  sincerity,  on  his  virtuous 
resolutions,  and  thought  too  little  of  his  own  weak- 
ness and  sinfulness,  and  of  the  perils  before  him. 
Grief  and  repentance  to  such  a one  are  painful  in- 
deed. He  cannot,  at  first,  feel  the  tenderness  of 
a broken  spirit;  there  is  an  irritation  in  wounded 
pride,  in  the  mortification  of  not  having  kept  up 
to  what  he  promised,  which  for  a while  precludes 
the  beneficial  effects  of  sorrow  from  being  felt. 
Deal  gently  with  such  a man,  you  who  are  his 
friends  and  spiritual  advisers!  To  taunt  him 
with  his  fall,  will  be  only  to  arm  his  pride  against 
better  considerations.  Mourn  with  him,  mourn 
for  him  ; let  him  see  you  feel  the  force  of  his 
temptations,  that  you  admit  his  former  earnestness : 
but  press  upon  him  the  words  of  Holy  Writ,  and 
pray  with  and  for  him,  that  he  may  henceforth 
seek  his  God  in  deeper  humility  of  mind,  with  a 
more  heartfelt  sense  of  his  own  poverty. 

There  are  some,  blessed  be  God!  even  now,  || 
who  can  often  meet  their  Maker,  their  Lord,  their  g; 


THE  COOL  OP  THE  DAY. 


125 


Father,  in  “ the  cool  of  the  day/’  with  calm  and 
peaceful  spirits ; who  though  they  feel,  more  deep- 
ly than  any,  every  transgression  of  their  own,  and 
the  guilt  of  all  transgression  whatsoever,  have 
yet  accepted  with  all  humility  of  mind  the  offers  of 
grace  and  pardon  through  Jesus  Christ,  and  are 
endeavouring  faithfully  to  follow  him  in  the  way 
in  which  he  trod.  They  sin;  yes,  they  cannot 
escape  all  remains  of  the  universal  defilement ; but 
their  sins  are  not  habitual : they  are  betrayed  into 
remissness  and  neglect  of  duty,  but  they  do  not 
remain  in  them.  Every  hour  in  the  day  brings 
the  remembrance  of  their  all-seeing  God.  They 
habitually  regard  themselves,  as  in  imminent  dan- 
ger of  falling,  and  know  their  only  chance  of  es- 
cape is  in  keeping  close  to  God  in  prayer.  When 
they  err,  they  have  not  the  aggravation  of  looking 
back  on  presumptuous  thoughts  of  their  own 
strength  in  goodness : they  resort  immediately , 
even  as  soon  as  the  departure  from  virtue  is  felt, 
to  the  throne  of  grace,  looking  unto  that  High 
Priest  who  is  touched  with  a feeling  of  our  infirmi- 
ties. Prayer  for  deliverance  follows  close  upon 
the  perception  of  sin.  As  it  has  been  beautifully 
observed,  “ He  (the  true  penitent)  mourns  after  a 
godly  sort,  with  a godly  sorrow,  or  a sorrow  which 
directly  regards  God.  His  sorrow  springs  from 
the  consideration  of  the  majesty,  purity,  and  Ex- 
cellency of  that  glorious  Being  whom  he  hath  of- 
fended, the  reasonableness  of  the  law  which  he 
hath  transgressed,  the  obligations  to  obedience 
which  he  hath  violated,  the  ingratitude  of  which 
he  hath  been  guilty.  As  every  sin  partakes  of  the 
same  nature,  and  implies  the  same  disregard  of 
God,  he  mourns  for  all  and  every  one ; Whether 
man  were  injured  by  it  or  not,  whether  it  were 
secret  or  open,  a sin  of  omission  ox  of  commission, 


126 


THE  COOL  OF  THE  DAY. 


and  whether  it  were  or  were  not  contrary  to  the 
notions,  maxims,  customs,  and  allowance  of  the 
world.  Yea,  every  sinful  temper,  imagination, 
and  inclination,  every  idle,  unprofitable  word, 
every  evil  action  of  his  whole  life,  as,  upon  exam- 
ination, it  recurs  to  his  remembrance,  excites 
afresh  his  godly  sorrow.”*  Yet  his  character  is 
stamped — “ A mourner  that  shall  be  comforted.” 
His  is  a sweet  sorrow  : while,  with  tears  of  con- 
trition and  gratitude,  he  praises  a pardoning  God 
and  a bleeding  Saviour,  he  realizes  the  paradox — 
Sorroivful , yet  always  rejoicing. 

It  is  not  only  in  “ the  cool  of  the  day”  that  the 
Lord  God’s  voice  is  heard  by  the  true  Christian  ; 
at  morning,  at  noon,  at  every  hour,  he  watches  for 
those  dear  intimations  of  his  presence,  which  are 
only  denied  to  them  whose  minds  are  debased  by 
constant  attention  to  lower  objects.  He  sees  his 
Maker  in  every  blade  of  grass,  hears  him  in  every 
breath  of  air,  listens  to  the  gentle  whispers  of  con- 
science within  him,  looks  upon  every  distressed 
object,  every  abuse  and  corruption  of  society,  as  a 
call  from  his  Creator  to  remember  Him,  and  the 
end  for  which  he  was  sent  into  the  world.  Though 
every  hour  brings  its  need  of  repentance  too,  yet 
it  is  his  comfort  and  joy  to  feel  that  this  does  not 
lessen  his  sense  of  the  value  of  religion  : on  the 
contrary,  the  more  he  feels  the  difficulties  of  his 
path,  the  more  thankful  he  is  for  the  guidance  of 
the  Gospel ; the  more  cordially  does  he  embrace 
its  consoling  truths ; and  when  “ the  cool  of  the 
day”  comes,  with  what  soothing  thoughts  do  his 
evening  meditations  fill  his  soul ! “ Welcome, 

blessed  hour!”  well  may  he  exclaim:  “ welcome* 
the  leisure,  the  rest,  the  quiet  of  nature  which  en-  | 
ables  me  to  hold  converse  with  my  Father  and  my 
God!—  4 


* Scott  on  Repentance. 


THE  COOL  OF  THE  DAY. 


127 


‘ How  sweet  to  wait  upon  the  Lord 
In  stillness  and  in  prayer  1* 

Welcome,  thoughts  of  that  better  time  when  no 
hurry,  ho  tumult  shall  separate  me  from  Him ! 
Here  c the  cool  of  the  day/  the  quiet  time,  is  soon 
over  and  gone  ; but  in  that  blessed  world  how  per- 
fect, how  uninterrupted  will  be  our  devotions ! 
how  will  the  soul  possess  itself  in  peace  !” 

I write  this  while  all  nature  is  as  calm  as  the 
sweetest  of  summer  evenings  can  make  it ; not  a 
breeze  ruffles  the  water,  not  a cloud  obscures  the 
splendour  of  the  moon  which,  now  nearly  at  the 
full,  is  rising  above  the  trees.  And  yet  here  is  not 
perfect  harmony  : from  the  neighbouring  cottage, 
the  voice  of  harsh  and  unpleasant  discord  often 
reaches  my  ears  ; at  a distance,  comes  in  the  drun- 
ken and  sometimes  blasphemous  language  of  the 
labourers  at  the  village  alehouse  ; and  now  and 
then  I have  been  pained  to  see  the  noble  horse 
goaded  past  by  an  inhuman  rider.  It  is  difficult 
to  hear  and  see  these  without  a disheartened,  dis- 
pirited feeling,  which  checks  the  cheerfulness  and 
freedom  of  devotion.  Often  do  I need  to  admon- 
ish myself  not  to  seek  for  rest  here ; often  do  I 
need  to  remember  that  the  world  would  be  more 
loved,  and  heaven  less  desired,  but  for  the  vexa- 
tions we  meet  with  on  our  way  ; and  more  fre- 
quently still,  perhaps,  does  a dying  man  want  re- 
minding that  the  sinfulness  of  his  fellow-preatures  . 
is  not  merely  a thing  to  mourn  and  be  vexed  at,  it 
calls  for  all  his  labours,  while  he  has  breath  and 
strength,  to  intreat  them  to  consider  their  ways 
and  be  wise ; and  when  every  other  toil  is  too 
.great  for  him,  it  still  reminds  him  that  these  are 
subjects  for  fervent,  Christian  prayer. 

But  “ the  cool  of  the  day”  will  soon  be  past,  the 


128 


THE  COOL  OF  THE  DAY. 


midnight  hour  is  coining,  and  I must  betake  my- 
self to  my  rest.  How  long  will  it  be  thu$  ? A 
few,  a very  few  nights  more,  and  it  will  be  over  ; 
and,  blessed  be  God  ! my  hope  is  sure  aud  stddfast. 
I will,  then,  lay  me  down  in  peace  and  sleep ; for 
thou , Lord , only  makest  me  to  dwell  in  safety. 


If  there  be  any*  of  the  readers  of  this  little  nar- 
ative  who  are  conscious  that  “ the  cool  of  th^  day” 
has  often  been  to  them  a time  of  bitter  and  heart- 
rending repentance,  let  them  know  that  it  /is  not 
even  now  too  late ; let  them  know  that  the  Lor  & waits 
to  be  gracious  ; let  them  prepare  in  their  morning 
hours  for  the  trials  of  the  day  ; let  prayer,  frequent 
and  fervent  prayer  offered  up  through  thq  great 
Mediator,  draw  down  those  supplies  of  grace  which 
may  enable  them  to  reach  “ the  cool  of  the  day” 
without  dread  of  hearing  the  voice  of  the  Lord 
God.  But  if  that  quiet  tipie  be  already  come,  if 
the  sun  is  gone  down,  and  they  have  eveii  now 
been  admonished  of  the  presence  of  the  Lord ; 
still  it  may  not  be  too  late  : the  night,  though  (near, 
is  not  yet  arrived.  Though  the  labour  be  hard 
indeed,  though  misery  unutterable  be  endured,  O 
let  them  not  lose  those  few  precious  hours,:  we 
dare  not  say  they  will  be  available,  for  wq  can 
neither  look  into  the  human  heart,  nor  the  coun- 
sels of  the  Almighty  ; but  we  do  know  that  it  is 
their  only  chance  of  escape  ; the  only  glimmering 
of  light  left  to  them  ; and  we  are  sure  that  by 
losing  this , they  lose  every  thing. 

Let  not  those  who  are  at  an  earlier  period  of  the 
day  of  life,  wait  for  such  an  uncertainty  as  jthis. 
What ! will  you  prepare  for  yourselves  sighs  and 
tears  for  “ the  cool  of  the  day”’  instead  of  comfort, 


THE  COOL  OF  THE  DAY. 


129 


and  joy,  and  peace  ! Alas  ! you  know  not  what 
you  do.  Ask  the  drunkard,  ask  the  irreligious 
man,  what  it  is  to  set  about  a reformation  in  the 
evening  of  their  days ; ask  him  if  the  labour  be  not 
almost  inconceivable,  the  suffering  unutterable  ; 
ask  them  if  it  be  not  an  awful  thing  to  hear  the 
voice  of  the  Lord  God,  when,  in  “ the  cool  of  the 
day,”  they  are  yet  pursuing  their  guilty  pleasures, 
their  senseless  and  wicked  rebellion  against  Him  ? 
For  a moment  compare  such  feelings  as  these  with 
those  of  the  men  who  are  calmly  and  joyfully  ex- 
pecting the  presence  of  the  Lord ; to  whom,  let 
Him  come  when  He  may,  their  hearts  will  give  a 
delighted  welcome.  And  ever  remember,  that 
there  are,  there  most  certainly  are,  such  charac- 
ters, though  too  few  it  is  true,  and  far  apart : yet, 
blessed  be  God  ! we  have  some  such.  May  He 
increase  their  number,  and  even  in  our  own  time, 
in  our  own  land,  in  our  own  neighbourhood,  among 
our  friends  and  kindred,  and  those  of  our  house- 
hold, lead  many  sons  and  daughters  to  glory  ! 


THE 


POOR  STRANGER. 


It  was  in  the  month  of  August,  1816,  that  two 
travellers  drove  up  to  the  Crabmill  Inn,  Broms- 
grove.  One  of  them  gave  orders  for  refresh- 
ment, while  the  other  loitered  down  the  I ad- 
joining lane  leading  to  a neighbouring  vil- 
lage. On  reaching  a little  wooden  bridge*, 
erected  over  the  brook  that  crosses  the  lane,  he 
pondered  awhile  on  the  running  waters  ; for,  in 
the  days  of  his  boyhood,  he  used  frequently  to  pass 
that  way  from  school  to  church,  and  sometimes 
slaked  his  thirst  there.  With  his  pencil  he  wrote 
the  following  lines— 

This  brook,  wherein,  when  a stripling  wild, 

I bath’d  my  burning  brow. 

It  rapidly  ran  when  I was  a child, 

And  it  runs  rapidly  now. 

In  the  days  of  my  youth  our  acquaintance  began ; 

It  brings  back  old  scenes  to  my  view  : 

Not  only  its  waters  have  rapidly  run, 

My  life  has  run  rapidly  too. 

This  brook  may  roll  onward  for  ages  to  come, 

And  rapidly  running  be  found, 

When  I have  long  slept  in  the  heart  of  the  tomb, 

Or  moulder’d  away  in  the  ground. 

And  haply,  when  time  its  departure  shall  know, 

And  this  brook  shall  be  seen  again  never, 

My  life  in  eternity’s  channel  may  flow, 

And  rapidly  roil  on  for  ever. 


THE  POOR  STRANGER. 


131 


He  was  in  a solemn  mood  : for  his  companion 
was  ill.  His  days,  alas ! were  numbered ; and 
this  was  the  last  journey  they  were  to  take  togeth- 
er. Taking  a book  from  his  pocket,  and  walking 
onwards,  he  became  absorbed  in  its  contents. 
Suddenly  a well-dressed  working  man,  who,  it  ap- 
peared, had  followed  him  dowfi  the  lane,  abruptly 
but  respectfully  accosted  him  with  the  enquiry, 
whether  he  might  be  permitted  to  ask  what  book 
he  was  reading. 

The  traveller  was  fearful  by  the  appearance  of 
the  stranger,  and  the  wildness  of  his  mien,  that 
his  mind  was  somewhat  unsettled;  but  whether 
by  a partial  deprivation  of  reason,  or  by  the  influ- 
ence of  intoxication,  he  could  not  tell.  He  re- 
plied to  his  question,  that  although  the  book  he 
was  reading  was  not  the  best  of  books  ; yet  it  af- 
forded much  useful  reflection.  It  was  the  “ Night 
Thoughts”  of  Dr.  Young.  The  stranger  enquired 
if  the  traveller  was  not  a clergyman.  Being  an- 
swered in  the  negative,  he  said,  that  the  distressed 
and  desponding  state  of  his  mind  had  latterly  led 
him  to  wander  much  alone,  and  that  he  had  follow- 
ed him  under  the  dominion  of  something  which  he 
could  not  resist,  believing  him  to  be  a clergyman ; 
and  added,  that  God  had  brought  him  there,  for 
what  purpose  he  did  not  know.  The  traveller 
perceiving  that  the  wish  of  the  stranger  was  to  en- 
gage him  in  serious  conversation,  made  some 
remarks  calculated  to  gain  his  confidence.  The 
stranger,  in  a state  of  great  perturbation,  confessed 
that  he  had  been  one  of  the  most  abandoned  beings 
upon  earth.  There  had  been  a time  when  he 
knew  something  of  the  goodness  of  God,  regularly 
attended  divine  worship,  and  found  such  ways  to 
be  ways,  of  pleasantness , and  such  paths  the  paths 
of  peace.  But  when  stationed  as  a soldier  in  the 


132 


THE  POOR  STRANGER* 


West  Indies,  he  had  given  free  course  to  his  evil 
inclinations ; he  had  followed  the  “ devices  and 
desires  of  his  heart/’  and  lived  without  God  in 
the  world.  For  this  his  apostacy  God  had  with- 
drawn the  light  of  his  countenance,  and  left  him 
in  despondency,  and  nearly  in  despair*  The 
Bible,  from  whence  he  once  derived  comfort,  he 
dared  not  read.  The  heavens  appeared  to  frown 
upon  him,  and  the  wrath  of  God  incessantly  to 
pursue  him. 

As  the  stranger  proceeded,  his  agitation  increas- 
ed, and  the  agony  of  his  mind  became  more  and 
more  apparent.  The  traveller  attempted  to  mod- 
erate the  stranger’s  excess  of  terror  : he  acknowl- 
edged the  exceeding  sinfulness  of  sin  ; but  pointed 
out  the  long-suffering  and  tender  mercies  of  the 
Redeemer,  manifested  to  his  unworthiest  crea- 
tures, if  repentant ; he  enlarged  on  the  goodness 
of  God,  who  in  the  ordinary  course  of  his  provi- 
dence rarely  gave  repentance  to  forsake  sin,  with- 
out eventually  adding  faith  to  receive  the  consola- 
tions of  his  promises,  and  concluded  by  expressing 
his  heartfelt  desire,  that  the  stranger  might  be*  de- 
livered from  his  present  bondage,  and  that  the 
same  bountiful  Being  who  apparently  had  hidden 
his  face  from  him,  in  everlasting  mercies  would 
return  unto  him. 

The  stranger’s  agitation  here  was  extreme : his 
whole  frame  trembled  with  emotion ; he  clung  to 
the  traveller,  perceiving  him  about  to  depart,  and 
while  the  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  earnestly 
besought  him  to  promise,  that  when  he  put  up  a 
prayer  to  that  merciful  Being  of  whom  he  had 
been  speaking,  he  would  not  forget  to  plead  the 
cause  of  a poor  benighted  stranger. 

The  traveller  returned  to  the  inn,  reflecting  on 
his  interview  with  the  stranger.  There  are  few 


THE  POOR  STRANGER. 


133 


employments  attended  with  greater  advantage 
than  that  of  considering  carefully  the  different 
circumstances  of  life,  in  connection  with  the  good- 
ness of  God.  Most  persons,  whose  powers  of 
memory  have  not  been  destroyed  or  weakened, 
may  call  to  mind  circumstances  which  have  puz- 
zled their  judgment  and  confounded  their  reason  : 
unusual  support  in  affliction  and  sorrow ; unex- 
pected assistance  in  distress  ; unlooked-for  deliv- 
ery from  danger.  Where  the  mind  is  sceptically 
inclined,  these  circumstances  are  called  happy 
chances , and  lucky  events ; and  thus  the  acknowl- 
edgment of  an  ever  active,  benevolent,  and  almigh- 
ty power  is  evaded.  How  different  are  his  views, 
how  abundant  his  consolations,  who  is  mercifully 
instructed  to  ascribe  all  to  His  providence,  who 
ordereth  all  things  aright,  who  is  Governor  among 
the  nations,  and  who  knoweth  our  frames,  and 
considers  that  we  are  but  dust.  While  the  chang- 
ing events  of  this  life,  the  moving  sands  of  this 
wilderness,  are  continually  obliterating  our  foot- 
prints, and  the  pathways  by  which  we  have  been 
led,  it  becomes  us  to  erect  landmarks  of  our  troub- 
les, and  commemorations  of  the  goodness  of  our 
heavenly  Guide.  Did  we  more  frequently  retrace 
our  steps  with  an  humble  and  grateful  spirit,  “ In 
such  a place,57  we  might  say,  “ we  were  afflicted, 
and  found  comfort.  Here  my  heart  was  over- 
whelmed, but  I was  led  unto  the  Rock  that  is  high- 
er than  /.  There,  cast  down  and  desponding. 
He  was  my  refuge  and  strength , a very  present 
help  in  time  of  trouble . And  yonder,  surrounded 
by  temptations,  my  foot  had  well-nigh  slipped , but 
the  Lord  sustained  me/5  These  commemorations 
would  increase  our  dependence,  strengthen  our 
hopes,  and  confirm  our  confidence  in  our  heavenly 
Father,  We, should  be  more  convinced  that  God 


134 


THE  JPOOR  STRANGER. 


is  7iigh  unto  ,all  that  call  upon  him  in  truth , and 
touched  by  our  infirmities  ; so  that  in  all  our  afflic- 
tions He  is  afflicted,  and  the  angel  of  His  presence 
preserves  us. 

As  they  journeyed  together  over  the  Lickey 
Hills,  the  traveller  narrated  to  his  companion  the 
singular  circumstance  that  had  occurred.  The 
poor  stranger  had  entered  into  a narration  of  the 
scenes  he  had  engaged  in  when  a soldier  in  the 
West  Indies,  and  the  desperate  and  wanton  acts 
committed  by  him  and  his  companions.  There 
was,  he  had  said,  nothing  too  wicked  for  them  to 
engage  in,  and  they  had  taken  their  fill  of  iniquity, 
as  a sow  wallowetn  in  the  mire,  and  revelled  in 
every  abomination.  The  exceeding  sinfulness  of 
sin  became  the  subject  of  a prolonged  conversation 
that  will  not  soon  be  forgotten.  And  who  shall 
say  that  the  most  humble  Christian  may  not  have 
exhibited  to  his  view,  in  another  state  of  being,  the 
catalogue  of  his  sins,  with  all  the  infectious  conse- 
quences thereof,  through  the  period  of  time  ? Al- 
though our  Redeemer,  hath  put  away  the  sin  of 
those  who  through  faith  will  inherit  the  promises, 
by  the  sacrifice  of  himself ; yet  may  not  a disclos- 
ure of  our  secret  sins  more  effectually  strip  us  of 
self-righteousness,  and  bring  us  in  guilty  before 
God,  thereby  increasing  the  value  of  that  redemp- 
tion which  can,  at  best,  but  be  imperfectly  estima- 
ted ? We  can  never  fully  estimate  our  own  sinful- 
ness here  ; and  the  exhibition  of  our  sins  may  be 
permitted  in  another  world,  not  to  overwhelm  us 
with  despair,  but  to  convince  us  of  the  extent  of 
our  depravity,  and  the  magnitude  of  the  mercy  of 
our  God.  What  a thought ! that  our  secret  sins 
may  be  set  in  the  light  of  God's  countenance,  and 
made  apparent  to  an  assembled  world.  Well  may 


THE  took  stranger.  135 

we  pray  to  be  “ guided  by  his  counsel,  and  after- 
wards  brought  to  his  glory.” 

This  circumstance  was  not  of  a nature  to  be 
forgotten;  and  when,  after  a long  lapse  of  timef 
the  traveller  returned  to  the  same  place,  he  became 
desirous  to  find  out  the  habitation  of  the  stranger. 
He  remembered  that  during  the  conversation  with 
him,  a person  passing  had  accosted  him  by  his 
name ; he  was  therefore  enabled  to  pursue  his  en- 
quiries. A train  of  gloomy  reflections  presented 
itself  to  his  mind  as  he  drew  near  the  abode  he 
sought.  He  knew  enough  of  human  nature  to 
entertain  a fear  that  the  stranger,  with  all  his  so- 
licitude after  peace  and  salvation,  might  be  living 
in  the  progress  of  sin,  the  slave  of  his  debased 
passions,  rebelling  against  the  words  of  God,  and 
contemning  the  counsel  of  the  Most  High. 

On  enquiring  the  character  of  the  stranger,  a 
significant  look  accompanied  the  unwelcome  infor- 
mation that  he  was  a drunken  man.  The  travel- 
ler entered  his  habitation  : it  was  clean  and  com- 
fortable. A little  girl,  the  only  inhabitant,  had 
the  roses  of  health  and  buoyancy  in  her  cheeks. 
Her  father  was  in  his  garden,  and  instantly  recog- 
nized the  traveller.  The  stranger  approached 
with  respect  and  apparent  pleasure,  said  he  had 
thought  much  of  the  conversation  he  had  had  with 
the  traveller,  had  made  many  enquiries  after  him, 
but  not  knowing  his  name,  could  obtain  no  infor- 
mation, and  despaired  of  ever  seeing  him  again. 
The  traveller  adverted  to  their  former  discourse* 
and  the  effect  it  had  produced  on  his  own  mind  ; 
and  then  expressed  his  regret  that  a man,  appa- 
rently so  much  impressed  with  the  sinfulness  of 
his  past  life,  and  so  anxious  to  obtain  a remission 
of  his  trespasses,  should  wound  his  own  conscience, 
*.and  become  a reproach  among  his  neighbours,  by 


136 


THE  POOR  STRANGER. 


intemperate  acts  of  revelry  and  drunkenness. 
The  stranger  confessed,  though  he  abhorred  him- 
self for  it,  that  there  was  too  much  truth  in  the  ac- 
cusation ; that  the  desponding  state  of  his  mind 
had  driven  him  to  the  commission  of  a crime  which 
frequently  rendered  him  more  wretched.  He  had 
for  a time  estranged  himself  from  his  companions ; 
but  thinking  himself  able  to  associate  with  them 
without  partaking  of  their  follies,  he  had  sought 
their  society,  and  fell  into  his  old  errors.  But  he 
trusted  that  God,  who  had  in  mercy  delivered  him 
in  a great  measure  from  despondency,  had  also 
removed  this  evil  from  him  : for  that  finding  him- 
self unequal  to  resist  temptation,  he  had  been  in- 
duced to  leave  his  companions  altogether.  He 
knew  that  he  had  been  considered  a drunkard ; 
but  that  he  had  not,  for  some  time  past,  disgraced 
himself ; and  the  character  he  had  among  his 
neighbours  did  not  refer  to  his  present  mode  of 
living.  He  expressed  himself  as  truly  grateful  for 
the  long-suffering  and  forbearance  of  God,  who 
had  not  visited  him  according  to  his  sins,  nor  re- 
warded him  according  to  the  multitude  of  his  ini- 
quities ; thanked  the  traveller  again  and  again  fbi 
the  interest  he  had  taken  in  his  temporal  and  eter- 
nal welfare ; and  humbly  hoped  that  an  extended 
knowledge  of  his  own  weakness  would  lead  him 
with  great  earnestness  to  seek  for  strength  from  on 
high. 

As  the  traveller  departed,  the  poor  stranger  took 
his  hand  with  visible  emotion,  wrung  it  earnestly, 
and,  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  expressed  a hope  that 
should  he  ever  again  so  far  favour  him  as  to  en- 
quire into  his  character,  a very  different  answer 
would  be  given. 

It  is  not  impossible,  in  the  course  of  providence, 
that  this  little  narrative  may  reach  the  hand  of  the 


THE  POOR  STRANGER. 


137 


stranger.  If  so,  it  will  remind  him  of  resolutions 
of  amendment  once  made,  and  obligations  incurred, 
which  were  known  to  Him  who  is  well  acquainted 
with  the  secret  thoughts  of  the  children  of  men. 
And  if  it  should  fall  into  the  hand  of  any  other, 
who,  like  the  stranger,  because  of  his  transgress- 
ions and  iniquity  has  been  afflicted,  let  such  an 
one  ask,  if  he  has  redeemed  the  pledge  which  he 
gave  when  minished  and  brought  low , through  op- 
pression, affliction,  and  sorrow.  Let  him  enquire 
of  his  own  heart,  if,  when  he  cried  unto  the  Lord 
in  his  trouble  that  he  might  save  him  out  of  his 
distresses,  whether  he  did  not  promise  and  vow, 
that  his  knees  should  be  bowed  more  frequently, 
and  his  heart  be  lifted  up  to  God  more  fervently  in 
prayer  and  supplication  , and  whether  he  has,  more 
devotedly,  since  the  season  of  his  affliction,  praised 
the  Lord  for  his  goodness,  and  for  his  wonderful 
works  unto  the  children  of  men. 

And  thou,  reader  ! whether  thine  eye  be  lighted 
up  with  ecstacy,  or  thy  heart  bowed  down  with 
ao0ny>  forget  not  that  there  is  a God  that  judgeth 
the  nations  upon  earth.  He  knoweth  thy  secret 
sins , and  he  alone  can  restrain  the  unruly  wills 
and  affections  of  sinful  men.  Humble  thyself  be- 
fore  Him,  and  he  shall  exalt  thee ; acknowledge 
him  in  all  thy  ways,  and  he  shall  direct  thy 
paths.  J 


N 


STANDARD  SCHOOL  BOOKS. 


JAMES  LORING,  132  Washington-StreeS,  Boston,  has  published 
ALDEN'S  SPELLING  BOOK,  1st  part*  6th  editioiw  AXDEN  S 
SPELLING  BOOK,  2d  part,  10th  edition.  ALDEN  S READER* 
third  part*  5th  edition* 

The  above  Spelling  Books  are  used  in  the  Providence  Town  Schools* 
and  other  parts  of  Rhode  Island*  in  Massachusetts,  Connecticut,  Maine 

“"ft  improbable  that  no  less  than  eighty  thousand  of  the  second  part  have 
been  sold.  They  have  received  the  approbation  of  the  Hon.  Wm. 
Hunter,  Hon.  David  Cobb,  Rev.  Dr*  Messer,  Rex*  Dv.  Chapi  n,  Hon. 
Tristram  Burges,  Hon.  Wm.  Baylies,  Rev.  Mr,  Wilson,  and  many 
other  distinguished  gentlemen. 

The  following  recommendation  of  Alden’s  School  Books,  is  extracted 
from  a letter  sent  to  the  publisher  by  a respectable  clergyman,  the 
Chairman  of  the  town  school  committee.  ^ JpHl  4>  ,828. 

w From  a dozen  years  experience  in  the  business  of  instruction,  I have 
no  hesitation  in  saying,  that  these  books  possess  a decided  supenonty  to 
any  other  among  us.  Alden’s  Third  Part,  for 

to  read , is  of  more  worth,  in  my  estimation,  than  all  the  Readeis  publish 
ed  besides.  Other  Readers  contain,  good  composition,  but  I think  the 
compilers  have  gone  quite  aside  from  the  object  of  eonstruct,ng  a book 
to  teach  youth  to  read.  It  our  professional  men  would  study  and  leant 
Aiders  third  part,  we  should  hear  better  reading  Jr, 

Dr.  Snow’s  FIRST  PRINCIPLES  OF  ENGLISH  JELLING 
AND  READING,  containing  the  words  of  the  New  Testament,  &c. 

**llt  1ms  been  recommended  in  the  American  Journal  of  Education, 
Parkhurst’s  Teacher’s  Assistant,  Zion’s  Herald,  and  Boston  Literary 

GThefollowing  notice  of  the  above  is  from  the  August  number  of  the 
Sabbath  School  Treasury: — “ To  all  our  schools,  which  use .any  spell- 
ing books,  we  cheerfully  recommend  a little  volume,  entitled,  ttiH 
Principles  of  English  Spelling  and  Reading.  Containing  s 

the  New  Testament,  arranged  in  Lessons  adapted  to  the  capacity  of 
learners  in  Primary  and  Sabbath  Schools.  By  Caleb  H.  Snow,  M. , D. 

“ We  rejoice  to  learn  that  some  of  our  S.  Schools  have  aheady  collected 
several  classes  of  little  children,  only  two  or  three  years  old. 
ersofsuch  children  will  find  the  little  book  we  have  lecommended,  a 
valuable  assistance  in  their  interesting  labours. 

7th  Edition  BLAIR’S  CATECHISM  OF  COMMON  THINGS 
necessary  to  be  known  at  an  early  age.  Together  with  a Catechism  of 
the  American  Revolution,  another  of  the  Customs  ot  Nations,  Anthme- 

'MfS&Srs  GRAMMAR  Abridged  by  a Teacher  of 
Touth  of  Boston.  Price  Jgl  per  dozen.  This  is  used  in  the  town  schools 
ntaSid  other  parts  of  Rhode  Island, 

icut  and  elsewhere.  No  primary  grammar  in  use  is  bettei  adapted  tor 
beSIEdUtonn MASON’S  SELF  KNOWLEDGE,  with  Question,  for 
Std“EdW«nWATTs'0N  THE  IMPROVEMENT  OF(THE  MIND 
w 13tSt™n  m'uk'ha LIS H* EXERCISES,  without  any 

^POKE’S  ESSAY  ^ ON* *LAN.0I1This  is  in  use  for  exercises  in  parsing ; 
Alger’s  Elements  of  Orthography. 


CORNHIXiIi 

SUNDAY  SCHOOL  BOOK-STORE, 

•ion  of  Washington’s  head. 

„JaA‘VJEJ.  LORING,  at  the  Comhill  Sabbath  School  Book-Store,  No. 
1 -i U sbmgton-Street,  has  just  replenished  his  stock  of  Juvenile  Books, 
with  the  publications  of  the  American  Sunday  School  Union,  which  he 
offers  at  the  same  rates  as  they  are  sold  at  the  Union  depositories.  Reg- 
ular supplies  of  new  books  suited  for  Sabbath  School  Libraries  are 
received  from  various  publishers  in  the  United  States,  which  are  also 
offered  at  veir  cheap  prices.  Within  a few  years  he  has  published 
upwards  of  50,000  copies  of  books  adapted  for  this  purpose,  and  intends 
pursuing  the  business  so  long  as  public  patronage  is  extended. 


Narratives  of  Hindoo  Converts. 
The  Pilgrim  of  India.  By  Mrs. 
Sherwood. 

The  Hindoo  Traveller.  By  Mrs. 
Sherwood. 

Choice  Gems  for  Children. 

Guilty  Tongue. 

The  Young  Jewess,  a Narrative. 
The  Banks  of  the  Irvine. 

Maternal  Solicitude  for  a Daugh- 
ter’^ Best  Interests. 

Reciprocal  Duties  of  Parents  and 
Children. 

Practical  Hints  to  Young  Females. 
Watts  on  the  Mind,  with  Questions. 
Edwards  on  Religious  Affections. 
Beautiful  Vine,  and  other  Sketches. 
Familiar  Letters  between  a Mother 
and  her  Daughter  at  School.  By 
Mrs.  and  Miss  Taylor. 

Village  School. 

Mason’s  Self  Knowledge. 

Elizabeth  Palmer,  or  Display.  By 

Jane  Taylor. 

Youth’s  Casket,  or  Teacher’s  Pres- 
en i .By  Mrs.  Sherwood. 
Rainsford  Villa. 

Snow’s  New  Testament  Spelling- 

Book.  . ° 

James  Somers,  the  Pilgrim’s  Son. 
Story  of  Jack  Halyard. 

Orphans  of  Normandy.  By  Mrs. 
Sherwood. 

Jane  and  her  Teacher. 

George  Wilson  and  his  Friend. 
Nott’s  Religious  Scenes. 

Christian  Father’s  Present. 

Catherine  Brown,  the  Indian. 
Sunday  School  Teacher’s  Guide. 
Anna  Ross. 

Memoir  of  Miss  Sinclair. 

Choice  Pleasures  for  Youth. 

Mother’s  Portrait. 

Walks  of  Usefulness  in  London. 
Sketch  of  My  Friend’s  Family. 
Profession  is  not  Principle. 

The  Decision,  or  Religion  must  be 
8ll)  or  is  nothing 


Picturesque  Piety.  By  I.  Taylor. 
Female  Sunday  School  Teacher. 
Italian  Convert. 

Lily  Douglas. 

The  Catechist. 

Jane  Taylor’s  Memoirs, 

Ayah  and  Lady.  ByMrs.Sherwood. 
Memoirs  ofElizabeth. 

Spiritual  Voyage. 

Infant’s  Progress  from  the  valley 
of  destruction  to  everlasting 
glory.  By  Mrs.  Sherwood, 
Caroline  Lindsay. 

Rural  Rambles. 

Farmer’s  Daughter. 

Bible  Questions. 

Lincoln’s  Scripture  Questions. 
Mary’s  Visit  to  Boston. 

Harriet  and  her  Cousin. 

Thornton  on  Repentance. 

Helen  of  the  Glen. 

Little  Henri,  the  Lost  Child, 

Nina,  an  Icelandic  Tale. 

Warning  and  Example. 

Young  Convert’s  Apology. 

Lottery  Ticket.  A Tale. 

Peaceful  Valley, 

Factory  Girl. 

Beauties  of  Fenelon. 

Economy  of  Human  Life. 

Wisdom  in  Miniature. 

Fenelon’s  Pious  Reflections. 
Piikinton’s  Scripture  History. 
Hieroglyphic  Bible. 

Father  Clement. 

Hints  on  Nursery  Discipline. 
Seraphical  Shepherd. 

Is  this  Religion  ? 

Brooke’s  Apples  of  Gold. 

Innocent  Poetry. 

Visits  to  a Cottage. 

In  School  and  out  of  School. 
Adelaide  Murray. 

Pastor’s  Sketch  Book. 

Sherwood’s  Stories. 

Providential  Care. 

Scripture  Natural  History. 

Happy  Family. 


Continued  to  the  next  page. 


Catalogue  of  Sunday  School  Books , continued , 


Allan  McLeod. 

Wellesley  Grey.  9 
Sherwood’s  Governess. 

Maria’s  Reward. 

Juliana  Oakly.  By  Mrs.Sherwood. 
My  Early  Days. 

Pierre  and  his  Family. 

Gleanings  for  "Youth. 

Rose  and  Emily. 

Good  Grandmother. 

Examples  of  Piety. 

Orphan  Boy. 

Jessy  Allan. 

Integrity. 

Alfred  and  Galba. 

The  I' win  Sisters. 

History  of  Susan  Gray. 

Choice  Stories. 

Early  Piety. 

Memorial  for  S.  School  Boys. 

do.  do.  Girls. 

Mary  Grant. 

Happy  Choice. 

Hedge  of  Thorns. 

Lucy  and  her  Dhaye. 

Two  Friends. 

First  of  April. 

Robert  and  Louisa. 

Sergeant  Dale. 

Harriet  and  Scholars. 

First  day  of  the  Week. 

Last  day  of  the  Week. 

Week  Completed. 

Ermina. 

Election  Day. 

Father’s  Reasons. 

Dairyman’s  Daughter. 

Wild  Flowers. 

Mahommed  Ali  Bey# 

Martyn’s  Life. 

Marten  and  his  Scholars. 

Lady  at  Farm  House. 

Elnathan. 

Scottish  Farmer. 

Brainard’s  Life. 

Religious  Fashions. 

Clare  Stevens. 

Scenes  in  Switzerland. 
Luther’s  Life. 

Moravian  Missions. 

Evening  Conversations. 
Researches  in  Holy  Land. 
Destruction  of  Jerusalem. 
Labourers  in  the  East. 
Christian  Religion. 

Holy  War. 

Scripture  Illustrations. 
Gardiner’s  Daughter. 

Two  Friends 
Emma  and  her  Nurse. 
Draper’s  Discourses. 

I*le  of  Wight. 

Infant  Hymns. 

Buchanan’s  Life. 


I Scenes  in  America, 
do.  Africa, 

do.  Europe. 

Religious  Extracts. 

Death  of  Abel. 

Rural  Scenes. 

Pillmore’s  Narratives. 

Simple  Truths. 

Pleasing  Moralist. 

Eskdale  Herd  Boy. 

Scottish  Orphan. 

Arthur  Monteith. 

Life  of  Moses. 

Natural  Theology. 

Life  of  Joseph. 

Rose  and  Agnes. 

Matilda  Mortimer. 

Bear  and  forbear. 

Tale  of  Warning. 

Evening  Entertainments. 

Son  of  a Genius. 

Young  Moralist. 

Self  Denial. 

Always  Happy. 

Young  Pilgrim. 

Mason’s  Remains. 

Flavel’s  Keeping  the  Heart. 

Nott’s  1 essons  to  Children. 
Burder’s  do. 

Walks  in  Kent. 

Sister’s  Gift. 

Juvenile  Forget  Me  Not. 

Eliza  J.  Drysdale. 

Fairchild  Family. 

Visit  to  the  Sea  Side. 

Caroline  Lindsay. 

Edward  Duncombe. 

Lucretia  and  her  Father. 
Sherwood’s  Lucy  Clare. 

Taylor’s  Character  Essential  to 
Success  in  Life. 

Dunailan. 

Modern  Martyr. 

Soldiers  Orphan. 

Well  Spent  Hour. 

Advice  to  Young  Men. 

Young  Cadet 
Short  Stories. 

English  Mary. 

Pink  Tippet. 

Visit  to  My  Birth-Place* 

Juvenile  Library. 

Henry  Milner. 

Pastor’s  Tales. 

Choice  Stories. 

Familiar  Dialogues  for  S.  Schools. 
Sherwood’s  Stories  on  Church. 
Catechism. 

Swartz’s  Life. 

Scenes  in  Georgia. 

Cotton  Mather’s  Life. 

Week’s  Holidays. 

Persuasives  to  Piety. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS-URBANA 


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